Koi Killer Two: Circles on a Sphere
by sparticletam
Summary: Charlie’s having a tough time dealing with the psychological aftermath of killing a man. When others try to help, he resists their advice while Don experiences a crisis of his own. Charlie finds an attractive diversion—but is he making things worse?
1. Chapter 1

**Title:**_ **Koi Killer Two: Circles on a Sphere**_

(Sequel to _Koi Killer_ 1-9)

**Writer:** sparticle (tam)

**Email:** psycho trauma drama/Charlie and Don angst

**Characters:** Charlie, Don, Alan, Larry, Megan

**Rating:** T - Charlie's having a tough time dealing with the psychological aftermath of killing a man. When others try to help, he resists their advice while Don experiences a crisis of hisown. Charlie finds an attractive diversion—but is he making things worse?

**Warnings:** language

**Notes:** _Charlie's POV._ This is a completed story so unless something happens to me or my picky PC, it will end in good time.Thanks to readers of _Chalk Chaser _and _Koi Killer. __Special thank you to **David Krumholtz** for this sentiment: "Fan fiction is awesome. So are all forms of interpretive expression."_

_DISCLAIMER: "Numb3rs" and its characters are the property of Scott Free Productions, Paramount Network Television and its creators plus other entities I know nothing about. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money has exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations and story are the property of the writer and may not be reposted or archived elsewhere sans permission._

**Koi Killer Two_: Circles on a Sphere _**

**Chapter One_: Charlieland_**

Larry closed the office door. "Sit down, Charles."

Charlie turned to him from the bookshelves, interrupted while selecting a math journal. This time of day and year, sunlight streamed through the tall windows and warmed the room, sometimes uncomfortably so. He slipped the journal back. "Why?" he said. "Something wrong?"

"Not immediately. Please, we need to talk." Larry came nearer, walked to Charlie's ivy. The plant had thrived, spiraling into the blinds.

"If it can wait, this isn't a good time. I have a class—"

"It won't take long," he said. "I think."

Charlie seated himself at the desk. Larry made him nervous. "Everything all right?"

"Ostensibly, yes." He picked a snaking ivy tendril off the floor, set it on the ledge. He'd apparently stepped on its leaves. "But some of us have been concerned about you."

_Not again. Damn it. I'll bet Dad has something to do with this. Or Amita._ "I'm handling it."

"Let's examine the evidence," Larry said. "First, your father…"

"Dad talked to you?"

"He has. However, he hasn't introduced any concern which I've not been concerned with myself. Remember Charles, I've had the opportunity to observe you for over a month now."

"Don't tell me you've talked to Don, too?" Charlie said. He was irritated to know others were discussing him behind his back.

"No, no I have not. You needn't preoccupy yourself with that. Please, hear me out."

Charlie pushed aside a pile of documents teetering at the edge of the desk and swiveled his chair towards the window. On the sill below the panes, the rich bronzed tint of the armillary sphere lightened in the sun, the symbol for Pisces prominently displayed on its outer ring. Someday, at home in the garden, he planned to set one up—an adjustable sphere that doubled as a sundial, accurate to two minutes, oriented to the city's latitude and longitude. He wished he were home now setting it up, because he didn't want to hear what Larry had to say. He supposed running out of the room would be overly dramatic.

"Get it over with," Charlie said, and leaned back. The chair squeaked under his weight, the sudden movement.

Larry resumed his speech. "Amita and I are struggling, Charles, as is your father. He's told me you were doing well after your terrible experience in the wilderness with Mr. Reylott. And, after Don returned to his own home, you continued to adjust, at least he believed so, and, when the semester started that you'd truly recovered, since you proceeded with classes per your yearly routine."

"He should worry about Don, not me."

"He's been worried about both of you," Larry said. "And as I indicated, the rest of us are struggling because there are some very viable clues which are distinct indicators that all is not well in Charlieland."

Charlie lifted the screen on his laptop and Larry came over, lowered it gently until it clicked. The physicist wore a summer shirt—the blue one with seagulls in flight—although summer had ended. Rows of skin crinkled his forehead.

"May I go on?" Larry said, going to the bookshelves. "Your father says you've been waking up in an agitated state, conversing in your sleep." He paced the room, hands clasped. "Shaking your head at me now won't change that fact. Your father is an exemplary interpreter of human nature and human trauma."

"No trauma," Charlie said. "Anyway, that's private information." Dad had gone too far.

"Nevertheless, again. Let me finish." He touched the sphere, rotated the celestial band. "If the aftereffects hadn't attained this level of gravity I wouldn't be standing here before you presently when I should be preparing my lecture and visual aids for this weekend's seminar. Several times, Amita and I have observed you virtually leap out of your epidermis when surprised by anyone, including the instant I walked in on you Friday to ask why you hadn't shown up for our meeting. And when she and I and you were walking to lunch and Professor Mindus came around the corner…who happens to be six foot three and quite imposing, such as Mr. Reylott, whose whereabouts are as yet unconfirmed, a tremendous source of anxiety to you, I'm sure—"

_My office is stuffy. Should take off my jacket._ "You're exaggerating."

"I don't believe so. Tell me you haven't been startled many times over the last few weeks by seemingly innocuous interruptions and that you haven't experienced trying nightmares which prompted your long-suffering father to rush in to see what alarmed you so. Apparently on several nights."

Charlie grabbed his folder and got up. "I have a class."

"We have time. It's directly downstairs."

He sat again. "Get to the point, Larry."

"You've missed four lectures. Your students assumed you were ill."

"It was only two. I hadn't grown accustomed to the schedule yet."

"Charles, you've been teaching for years."

_What I wouldn't give for a tide of sensory-pounding music right now_, he thought, _wave after wave to drown out the collective pressure of family and friends who have nothing better to do than correct me. No wonder I'm jumpy._

"Hello?" Larry said. "Am I making sense?"

Charlie sprung up and zipped round to the chalkboard. "What do you all expect from me?" He began to erase, making fast strokes. "No one except Don knows what it's like to…"

"What Charles?"

He bowed his head mid-stroke, still facing the board. "I'm not prepared to talk about it."

"I know it's a presumptuous imposition on your life, but we have talked and we're dismayed, as I said, watching you. Look at yourself. Circles under your eyes, thinner every day. Amita's commented you haven't smiled in weeks. I don't know why she elected to invite you to lunch after you snapped at her."

"I apologized."

"Your apologies are increasing of late." Larry stood beside him. "It's like you were someplace else the entire time we dined. Didn't eat much did you?"

He erased with sharp streaks into the corners of the board. "I wasn't hungry."

"Your father says you scarcely have dinner."

_Why am I the last to know?_ Charlie tossed off the eraser and charged past Larry, seizing the folder. "Next time you want to know what I'm having for dinner, ask me," he said, and opened the door. "Until then, it's none of your business. If you'll excuse me, I have a class."

ooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOooooo


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two:_ Brain-Raid_**

His lesson was unorganized, the lecture a rambling embarrassment. Charlie had brought the wrong file and he hastily ended his class, leaving the students confused yet elated to be dismissed a half hour early on a Monday to recover from their weekends.

_What gave Larry the right to interfere? _

In late afternoon, he secluded himself in his office and locked the door, hiding behind the bookcase so he couldn't be made out through the opaque glass, the PC monitor providing the only illumination. At one point, someone knocked. It felt wrong not to answer but the last thing he wanted was another unsolicited opinion regarding his behavior or a grand intervention claiming to address his alleged transgressions._ I can handle it. _

Nighttime was no longer the harmless end of day it had been and he was careful to depart before darkness could thoroughly cloak the city. When he got home, his father wasn't there. It was true; Dad had spoken to him about getting help, professional help. A counselor, he'd said, a psychologist.

_Why did Dad interfere? _

_I'm not crazy. _It simply takes time to get over killing someone. He called Don but couldn't reach him. Out on a case. _Need to hear his voice._ How to bring up the subject? _Hey Don, you having dreams of blood splattering all over your clothes, drops streaking across your face as a bullet tears through human flesh inches away from you and you see the horror of a man's face when he realizes yes, you pulled the trigger and he's going to die?_

_It was me. I did it, I had to. And it still makes me sick inside. _He second guessed himself for the millionth time, questioned why he couldn't have shot into Reylott's arm or leg, thrown the gun away, or jumped out of the way, something.

_God, I didn't. Accept it, Dr. Eppes, get over it. Get freaking over it. You took the only option open to you. It was self-defense. What's wrong with you? _

Charlie couldn't shake it off, couldn't get by it. He knew he was getting worse. Don was right; there was no easy out. He felt like an emotional _outlier_—in math, a data point located far from the rest of the data. It was just that, well, acting normal—going to work, chatting about the weather and even math—seemed absurd. He'd been drifting, isolated from other humans, present in body but absent in spirit. And now his flimsy cover was blown. Within him, fear had grown. If only they'd found Reylott's body, then maybe he could sleep, wouldn't wake up in a cold sweat.

He dragged himself upstairs and stepped on the bathroom scale. He'd lost seven pounds. Never a good way to lose it either, snacking on cheese crackers at lunch, orange juice in the morning and a bite of Dad's cooking in the evening to keep him happy.

Hadn't worked. The screaming nightmares had given Charlie away, that and spending too much time brooding by the koi pond or holed up indoors. Peace of mind—where did you swim off to?

He hid in the makeshift study he'd set up in the garage, stretched out diagonally on the air hockey table like a human centerpiece—just as inanimate and obtrusive— and contemplated living there forever. But the call of nature beckoned and he was compelled to go into the house. On the return trip to the study, the doorbell rang. He ignored it, uninterested in anything out of his routine, cursing the interruption. He'd hoped he'd have a few hours alone. It rang again and he relented, sauntered over to the door and saw the woeful night, then the pretty woman.

She was memorable. Looking for my cat, she said, have you seen it? Black and white, with a spot on its nose.

Her smallish hazel-blue eyes unexpectedly charmed him as did her reddish hair, glacially smooth skin and slightly overlapped side tooth. "I'm sorry," he said. "Haven't. But I'll keep an eye out." She gave him her number on a torn piece of paper and departed promptly, sending him a teeny wave. He tarried at the door for a moment, watching her try the next house, when David drove up. Don was in the passenger's seat. _Wonderful. And too late. I'm not in the mood to talk any longer._

Don had been in therapy—for his burns, not his head—exercising his arm and hands as the wounds healed, to keep the skin from contracting and impairing movement. It was painful treatment, but Don never let on how much. For the rest of his life, he would carry the scars Armen Reylott had given him.

"How's the arm?" Charlie said, but Don pushed past him, offering no reply.

David paused at the doorway. "Charlie, something happened today."

"It's Dad?"

"No," Don said from inside. He motioned Charlie to the dining table. "Come over here, sit a minute."

_Sit down, stand up—you're crazy. What's with everybody today? _When Don refused a beer, Charlie realized his brother's mood was as solemn as Larry's had been. _What did I do this time?_

Lingering, David told Don he could stick around, give him a ride home. Don replied it was a good idea if he'd wait, assuring David he'd be back to work tomorrow. David didn't seem to believe him and hesitated, then accepted Don's answer and served himself a drink from the fridge, going into the garden to grant the brothers their privacy.

After he'd gone out, Don shifted his position in the chair and fidgeted with the crystal salt shaker. "This afternoon," he said, turning it in his palm. "I got into a situation." He set the shaker down, removed his jacket and draped the sleeves over the chair. "I don't know where to start, I guess I can tell you I've had trouble falling asleep lately."

"Tell me about it," Charlie said. "I haven't—"

"Quiet Charlie, let me talk, okay? This is hard enough."

_Scolded in Charlieland._ "Sorry."

"Since I got back to work, I've been doing good. No problems on the job."

"Very fortunate."

Don glared at him.

"Go on." Charlie folded his hands together. "I'll shut up."

"Thank you. This afternoon—I had no idea this was going to happen—we executed an arrest. Suspect with a long rap sheet, ratty side of town, connected to an interstate trafficking ring. Doesn't matter the details, but, there was no electricity in the house and he and his dumb girlfriend had these stinky candles set out here and there. David and me, we knew beforehand but didn't think much of it. When we busted in, the guy ran and she ran and I went after him. They gave us a hard time and next thing I know there's this sound. A big explosion almost, like a rush of wind, you know, and something snapped in me, I don't know, came out of the blue."

He rubbed his eye with the bottom of his hand and Charlie noticed a welt darkening underneath his chin.

"I freaked out," Don said. "Froze. Guy got out from under my knee and slugged me one. I hit the floor and it was pandemonium from then on. Guy was all over the place, fighting like a ferret." He gestured, punctuating the action. "They were trying to get him down, the woman under control—she was screaming her head off—and a few feet away those stupid candles ignited a fire in their garbage—real pigs these two—and it was flying up the curtains and the futon and bunch of covers they'd been sleeping on." He stopped, seemed to be caught up in the pandemonium.

"Don?"

He blinked, untied his tie and slid it off with a snap. "I was on the floor, you know, and I backed off, shocked shitless, plastered up against the wall. Damn it, I dropped my gun. Can you believe it? Couldn't move. They're calling my name and I was glued to the wallpaper. Everyone yelling. Fire was getting bigger, on the ceiling. Can't believe how fast. Like that nightclub fire that killed all those people. David and Colby had to pull me out. I could barely walk. Legs wouldn't work. Couldn't take my eyes off the fire. It had me."

Charlie waited for him to regroup.

"It wasn't any better outside. They got me to the car and I crashed in the backseat. I was useless. Shaking, sweating, heart going a mile a minute. Couldn't breathe. Felt like there was a boulder on my chest. I thought I was dying, having a heart attack or something. Brain-raid, that's what Colby calls it."

"You okay now?"

"Yeah, yeah, I think so. Firefighters came, emergency, put out the fire. They checked me out. Post stress. That's what everybody says. Really came out of left field." He'd wrapped his hands around the shaker and was squeezing it, kneading one fist over the other. "I was back at the cabin. In the fire, you in the room, gone. All of it. My arm even hurt again."

"It's over, Don."

"That's why I'm here. Because it's not. Dad told me about your nightmares."

_What the hell? _"Enough," Charlie said, and slapped his hands on the table, rose to the kitchen. He needed wine, anything.

Don followed. "You should see someone."

Charlie chose the cabernet, previously sampled. "Me see someone? Why are we arguing over this? To each his own, right? If I think I need help, I'll get it. And if you think you need help, then get it. End of discussion."

"Dad said you won't do it."

"Are you going to do it?"

"Shrink's aren't for me," Don said. "Now that it's out in the open, I'm positive I can get it together."

"You kidding me?" Charlie removed a goblet from the cupboard. "Stop telling me what I should do."

"No one can tell you what to do, you do what you want."

"I'm hard-headed? Thick skulled? Look who's talking."

"I didn't say hard-headed or any other. Strong willed."

"Like my brother." Charlie opened the bottle on the counter. "I'm glad you're recovered. Congratulations."

"Cut it out. We have another problem."

Charlie said, "There's more?" and held the goblet in the air, pouring.

"Someone reported a sighting," he said, "of Reylott."

Wine spilled and the middle of Charlie's belly fluttered as if a moth were trapped inside. It threatened of things to come.

"There were pictures of him circulated when we went missing so a lot of people in that area know what he looked like. Someone from the hotel said they saw the same guy two days ago."

_I'd better sit down._

"It isn't the only reported sighting." Don was at the counter, tearing a paper towel off the roll. "Charlie?"

By the back door, their father kept a folding stool used for items on the higher shelves. Charlie had gone over, was slowly lowering himself onto it, bottle and goblet in hand.

"I hope they're dead wrong." Don soaked up the spill, down on a knee. "Could be somebody who resembles him."

"You don't sound very sure."

"I'm not," he said.

Charlie poured again and as the mouth of the bottle met the goblet's rim it clinked, sounding as though it could break. He took a big sip, his grip wobbly.

From the floor, Don asked if he was okay.

He took another drink. "Where's Dad, anyway? He should be home by now."

_oooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOooooo_


	3. 3: Misfire

**Chapter Three: _Misfire_**

**---1---**

At the front window, Charlie undertook an active vigil, expecting his father to drive up. He'd called him three times, getting voice mail each try. The more he'd pondered the Reylott reports, the more he imagined his adversary lurked on their doorstep, believing they were all in danger.

After a short respite, Don and David put on their jackets, preparing to leave. Charlie blocked them at the threshold, overwhelmed with the prospect of protecting his father on his own, convinced he might be in trouble. "Can't you get your people on him?" he said. "This is not like Dad."

"Premature," Don said, stepping out with David. "Dad's never been good about returning calls. He's probably at that dinner club he likes, the one with the Sinatra impersonator. I'll ring him on the way."

Charlie trailed them down the steps. "What if Reylott's at large?" He felt short of breath, shaky.

David turned to reassure him. "Charlie. He was severely wounded. It takes months to recover completely from an injury that bad. If he survived, which I doubt, he wouldn't be up and around for six weeks at least. And why would he be tooling around the same area where he knows we're after him? He'd be hustling it to Canada or Mexico weeks ago."

"Just the same. I'm calling the police." He produced his cell phone, dialing as he retreated up the steps. His fingers jumbled up the entry keys and he re-entered them clumsily under the porch light.

"Wait," Don said, going after him. "Chill out. It's not necessary." He waved back to David, indicated he'd be staying after all.

David asked if he was sure then nodded an acknowledgment, boarding his car to go. As he pulled out of the driveway, Charlie decided to text message his father, vaguely aware that his brother's attention had shifted back to him.

"Go inside," Don said, patting him on the back, and Charlie flinched. Don didn't give up, steering him towards the door. "Stop bothering Dad. Jeez, why'd I mention it?"

Determined to wait outside, Charlie refused to budge. "You took two days to tell me about the sightings," he said, shutting the phone. "Why?"

"They were unconfirmed. Still are. How much wine did you have?"

_They don't trust me. I don't even trust myself. _He touched the nape of his neck. It was sticky as if the air were humid. A faint numbness encircled his lips, damp film coating his palms. He scanned the thicket around the house, struggling with the odd thought that the night was getting blacker; he couldn't make out details as well as he normally could. _I'm going blind. _"Reylott's out there, isn't he?" he said, rubbing his eyes. "Alive. He has his rifle, restocked his supplies, reloading his guns, plans to take us all out at once. He has Dad, I know it, I…I can feel it, here." He dragged a fist back and forth over his chest, tapped it with a pair of fingertips, and heard a shout. "What was that?"

"Nothing, the neighbor's kids." Don held him by the arm. "Buddy, get a grip," he said. "Your nerves are shot. I know that look, it's me all over again today. Breathe."

_The street light's flickering. There's a halo around it. An aberration, an omen. No such things as omens, no such things…_

He heard Don order him into the house before his knees softened and he found himself sitting on a porch step, leaning forward.

"You're hyperventilating," Don said, "loosen up," and he lifted Charlie's hands to his face.

He cupped his palms over his mouth and nose, refilling on CO2. "I've lost my mind," he said, between inhalations. "I've gone nuts."

Don sat beside him, secured an arm around his shoulders. "Keep your hands to your mouth. Relax. You'll be all right, I'm with you."

"I can't sleep, can't eat." He sounded muffled. "Woke up crying last night."

"No talking. Concentrate on breathing normally."

"Dad…"

"He'll be here. It's early yet."

"He always calls." Charlie choked off. "When he's late."

"He doesn't," Don said. "Breathe. In, out, in, that's the way, out, you're doing it."

"I see Reylott everywhere. On campus, in classes, sitting at the back, around corners."

"Be quiet. Concentrate."

"At the store, crossing the street. From the window in my office, he passes by when I'm not looking. He's playing with me, Don, distorting my mind, tangling it all up."

"Shhhh."

"In this house. In my own house. At night, especially at night." Charlie reclined on the step behind him, arm outstretched for support. He could hear himself rambling. "I look down at the pond, think the koi aren't moving so I watch until I think I see they are and he's there, a ghost. Then that sickening sound, the gun pop."

Don said, "Why didn't you say something?"

"I thought it would go away by itself. It's worse, it's getting worse."

"You're breathing better. We should go in."

"Dad—when he gets…gets home." He'd taken both hands from his face. "Call him again."

"No, negative. He's all right."

Charlie gasped and Don guided his hands back up to his mouth. "Keep them there," he said, holding them in place. "You're going to pass out. Count backwards from a thousand by nines—no, too easy for you. By nine-sixteenths."

"Nine-sixteenths?" Charlie converted, fixing on decimals intuitively._ Focus. 999.44. Breathe normally…998.88, 998.32…for your own good…997.76...your sight is fine…997.20._ After a few numbers, he forgot and broke his silence, rapidly counting out loud: "996.64, 996.08..."

"Count to yourself," Don said, adding, "Still too easy, should've had you spell instead."

Charlie continued until he came to a whole number, 986, before running into a mathematical misfire. "I've lost my place," he said, panicking. "What…what's next?"

"You'll get it. Think."

"I don't know, I really don't. You drop your gun, I lose my place." He turned to Don, removing his hands. "Is it 985.3? 4?"

"Keep your hands up. Start from the last number you remember. Go—do it now."

_984.88?_ "Oh man, I can't see it's too dark."

"Listen to me, your eyes are okay, you're just nervous," he said. "Count."

Charlie obeyed, heeding Don's command. It seemed natural to do so under the circumstances. Covering his mouth, he restarted at 986, going to 985.44 and lower, into the 960's, even though he wasn't sure the numbers were right. Soon, with Don's encouragement, he felt his heart adopt a gentler rhythm and he scooted forward, prepared to get up, quivering legs unprepared to support his weight. Don helped him rise, escorting him indoors and into a chair, asked how he was feeling.

He was about to answer when a car drove up, its headlights shining in.

**---2---**

One glance at his face and Charlie could tell their father wasn't fooled. Alan knew something had happened, asked about Don's welt and Charlie's gray complexion. They kept late hours that night, talking things over, with Don sleeping over in his old room. But true to his words and his decisive demeanor, he went home to his apartment early the next day, then to work.

Alan caught Charlie before he departed for campus. "Wouldn't you rather take the day off after yesterday? Think things over?"

"No more than Don," Charlie said. Sometimes he wished he lived alone. "I don't see the effectiveness of inactivity."

"You could help me with the eaves."

"I could." Charlie picked up his briefcase. "You don't need to work on the house. I'll hire someone."

"I enjoy doing it, I'm used to it. Round of golf?"

Charlie started for the door, his father hovering around him. "Dad, give me some space, please," he said, feeling warm again, a wad in his throat, as though a pill were jammed part way. The night had been an ordeal. He'd been restless in bed, finally giving up and attempting to catch up with work on the PC. Don't go to the window, he'd told himself, don't go there, he isn't there, he is dead. _What a trap, utterly ironic—first I'm unnerved I killed the man, now I'm afraid he wasn't killed. Can't win. Can't banish him. He could be outside, anywhere, everywhere, preparing an ambush. _

"How about it?"

"I have to go," he said, tempted to lock and bolt the door, rather than go through it. He checked out the window, laid his soft briefcase on the credenza and unbuckled it, lifted the flap, shut it, lifted the flap again, drew out a thick manuscript and shuffled through the pages, tidying them up.

His father showed him a business card, held it under his face. "Here's the doctor we talked about, Give him a call. Today."

Charlie shoved the papers back in, closed and fastened the case, snatching up the card, angry, then reached out for the doorknob while several feet away. He halted mid-step, thought he'd forgotten something, and rushed out. On the porch, he stalled, with Alan standing inside the doorway. _What do you expect from me?_

He scanned the street, up and down the neighborhood, soles cemented to the stoop. _It_ _seems_ _peaceful_ _out_ _there yet_ _there's turmoil in here_. _I can't go on. Couldn't stay away from the window either, slept propped in a chair, leaning on the sill, with Don's old black baseball bat beside me. What kind of person does things like that? No control. He owns me, Reylott owns me. _

"Want me to call him?" Alan said, coming outside. "He's recommended."

"Why did you tell Larry, Dad?"

"I didn't know what else to do," he said. "I hoped he might have some influence. You can't go on like this."

Charlie stared at him, handed back the business card. "Tell me it'll be over someday, Dad."

"You'll have to work at it. But I promise, it will be."

_oooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOooooo_


	4. 4: Senseless

**Chapter Four: _Senseless_**

_Don't ask about my sex life. _Charlie imagined Dr.Volkov asking for personal statistics or requiring him to rate his satisfaction level on a scale of one to ten or some such. That isn't what I'm here for, Charlie reasoned he'd say to him, I'm here because I shot a man, and he might be alive, or he might not be, and I'm tired of sleeping by the window with a chair jammed underneath the doorknob. I'm tired of hating my bed because I hate voluntarily climbing in with demons who grill me like onions, tired of hearing noises in the hallway so that I stick my ear to the door, listening for his footsteps, the voice, laughter.

"Dr. Eppes, he's ready."

Charlie was startled then recovered his composure. The receptionist was politely tacit about his reaction and ushered him into the doctor's office. Volkov rose to shake his hand and after introductions, Charlie sat on the couch, thinking twice about whether it was lucky or not to have gotten in on a cancellation, and watched the doctor take a seat in an austere leather chair like those in the movies. _He's going to ask, I know it. What's to tell? Soothe the mind; resume operations. _

_All right, doc, we have fifty minutes to figure this out. Make me normal. _

He was disillusioned to find it wasn't this simple. It required almost the entire fifty minutes to fill Volkov in on what had happened to him and Don in the forest and the cave—including Don's recent on-the-job problem with the fire. Just telling the doc how it felt to be abducted ate up fifteen. Charlie retold his tale of helplessness under Reylott's control, how he'd been raced through the woods blindfolded and tied, tripping on rocks, cutting his knees and shoulders, wayward limbs nicking his face.

"How do you feel now?" Volkov said. "Speaking openly about it." The doctor had a casual manner like Don and wore a navy blue blazer over khaki slacks and topsiders. He wrote delicately, using a plain cardboard notepad.

"I remember too much. The dark is…powerful." Charlie smoothed his hand over the couch. It felt new, upholstered in a pattern of emerald green diamond-shapes, outlined in black, a white dot at the center of each diamond.

"Go on, Dr. Eppes—Charlie—it's all confidential."

"I've kept my lamp on low since then." He scrutinized the white dots; they were raised off the fabric and he ran his fingertips over the Braille-like bumps. "I've never been afraid of the dark before."

"It brings back the cave."

Charlie affirmed, wondering how many diamonds covered each decimeter of fabric. He began to calculate as he spoke. "Being stuck there, I knew morning would come, eventually, but…I didn't know what was happening with Don, or if I would make it through the night."

"And your brother? How's he doing?"

"He's of the opinion," Charlie said, "that is if he's aware of his symptoms then that's enough to prevent anymore extreme regressions." _Approximately one and a half centimeters in length, one in width for each diamond._

"Most people find talking things through is effective. It can expedite the healing process."

"Don was injured. He needed therapy for his burns."

The doctor sat forward. "You?"

"I had a lump on my head where he hit me. No permanent damage."

"That must've been frightening," Volkov said. "Did you fight back?"

"I didn't know what to do. I know it's a cliché, but it's true what they say, you don't have time to think, just react." _Six point seven five per decimeter…seventy centimeters times two times…estimate curvature of the cushions, stretch and fold of the textile, allow for variations…_

An awkward silence had ensued and Charlie realized the doctor had been monitoring him. He curtailed his calculations, said, "Why is this so complicated?"

"Your situation? What do you think?" Volkov was the stereotypical shrink, giving him questions to his questions.

Charlie said, "I've never done this before."

"In your work as a mathematician, you're proficient. Can you remember a time when you weren't?"

"No."

Volkov clicked his pen. "You've always been adept at math?"

"It's innate."

"I see. That's relevant." He entered it carefully on his notepad. "I'd like to explore it further some time."

Charlie thought a moment, leaving the diamonds unsolved. He had trouble finishing many tasks of late. "My work comes naturally to me."

"It's a pleasure for you." Volkov checked his watch. "How does it feel for this business, this crime, to be imposed on your day to day living—and your brother's—having it interfere with your job, what you love doing?"

Charlie squeezed the bridge of his nose. "I'm pissed," he said. "I'm extremely pissed." He beat the backrest with a firm slap. "I want to be free of it, yesterday."

"That's why you're here. I want you to do something. Will you work with me?"

Charlie wanted to know what it was before he'd agree.

"Ask Don to come in with you. I'd like to see you together next time."

"He won't go for it. My brother's very independent. I think he'd see this as a sign of weakness."

"How do you see it?"

"My problem or coming here?"

"Both," Volkov said.

Charlie stood to leave; their time was up. "The problem's exhausting. The longer it goes on, the more ineffectual I feel. I've fantasized about locking myself in my study, away from everybody, and not coming out. Bang my head against the sheet rock senseless, make myself normal again."

"Sounds very harmful for you." Volkov put down his notes. "What else do you want to do? Sit, we have a minute or two."

"I'd prefer to go."

"It's all right. Confidential, remember?"

Charlie said, "No one knows?"

"Me and you. But, if you aren't ready, I'm not going to—"

"All right." At the other end, Charlie rested on the couch's fat, overstuffed armrest. "I want a break."

"Do you contemplate hurting yourself?"

"Suicide?" _Do I actually come across that ill?_ "No, the opposite…sorry, I didn't intend to sound so literal about banging my head." He felt silly; he'd revealed more than he was comfortable with but something inside compelled him to continue. "I feel alone, you know? I'd like not to have to think about anything for a while."

"Be cared for?"

Charlie was reluctant to admit it. "Until I feel stronger, 'til I can face the world like I used to, the old Charlie who held three jobs and could carry out a lecture without worrying his brain might get sucked up into a singularity. Who slept like a log and ate with pleasure and could concentrate longer than fifteen seconds." He sighed. "And who didn't sleep with a baseball bat."

"Thanks for your honesty," Volkov said. "And how do you feel about seeing a therapist?"

"Presently, embarrassed."

"Ashamed?"

Charlie lingered by the door. "If it'll help, I'll ask Don."

oooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOooooo


	5. 5: Tribulations

**Chapter Five: _Tribulations_**

Don was furious. Charlie knew it when he arrived outside the FBI building and from a distance watched his brother march out the front entrance across the bridge, suit jacket over his shoulder, and bump into an elderly woman without excusing himself or apparently noticing.

Jogging, Charlie zigzagged through the stream of pedestrians and caught up with him halfway through the courtyard. "What's wrong?" he said. "I left a message."

"Shit," Don said, but didn't slow down. He was headed straight for the adjacent park.

Charlie jogged faster, struggling to match Don's slightly longer stride—_why didn't I grow at least as tall as he did?—_and stumbled on a crooked slab in the sidewalk. "What's going on?"

"They aren't giving me any choice." His voice boomed into a breezeway and a young couple nuzzling by a railing detached their lips long enough to see who was stomping through. Don seemed unconcerned with the impression left in his wake and thrust his jacket into Charlie's belly. "Hold this," he said, rolling up a cuff.

Charlie clutched it, surprised. "I don't understand," he said, and stopped cold. They'd reached the pathway into the park and he was taken aback. Ahead, clusters of pine trees awaited him, towering like those in the forest, filled with hiding places. _Stop it, _he thought, _you're in the middle of the second largest city in the U.S., for God's sake, it's irrational. _He hurried on, intercepted Don. "Do we have to go this way?"

Don was about to reply when his cell phone rang. "I hate that thing, shut the damned thing off," he said, and shoved a sleeve back up his elbow, speeded up.

"Don't you have it?" Charlie said, listening over the noise of a passing airplane. The phone rang again and he realized it was in the jacket. Falling behind, he fumbled through the pockets and plucked it out, then dropped and lost sight of it. "Wait up," he said, searching around him. But Don was thirty feet away, fists tight, mumbling.

The phone's ringing led Charlie to a row of cracks in the pathway where weeds and ground cover had taken root along the grassy perimeter. There he found the device and answered it. The caller had disconnected but he recognized Megan's number. Slipping the phone back into the pocket, he saw that Don had arrived at the waterfalls which were part of the fountain in the center of the park. He sprinted to catch up, grasping Don's arm, and pleaded with him to slow down, state what the trouble was.

Don jerked away, passing the fountain, and left him behind. _Damn you._

A bristling sensation crept up Charlie's neck and he pressed the jacket to his body, scrutinized the area, feeling exposed, vulnerable. The number of people had multiplied on the path and others were sitting round the fountain and on benches or having picnics in the middle of patchy fields, a few on blankets in the shade. Beneath an ancient oak, a young woman set a case down on the grass and knelt to open it. She resembled the woman who'd come to the door searching for her cat. Taking out a flute, she deftly assembled it and briefly tuned up, then began a classical piece Charlie didn't recognize, her sheet music propped between tree limbs. Around her, people listened, tilting their heads.

_Don—find him._ He forced himself onward, rushing, and discovered his brother sitting on the cobblestones, his back against the base of a statue near the pergola, legs folded up. Charlie decided to wait until Don was prepared to confide, extending the jacket to him.

He looked up at it, then at the cobblestones. "Go home, Charlie."

"I have a request."

"That why you're here? From now on, all my answers are no."

Charlie sat next to him, wrinkling the jacket over his thighs. "Well, there's obviously another reason now."

Don said, "Damn them."

He kept silent.

"They're punishing me, Charlie." His tone was angry again. "Reylott's grasp is long and wide and everlasting. He's making crap of my life."

"Our lives."

Don squinted, studied Charlie as if sizing up his tribulations as well. "He's in your head right now, isn't he?"

"I can't seem to get rid of him," Charlie said. "You going to share your secret?"

"My embarrassing secret?—it's no secret. No sir, can't show my face, they'll be looking at me funny."

"What happened?"

Don took a breath that meant business. "I'm on paid leave, effective immediately. They called me in after lunch. No warning, nothing. Filled me in on what happened yesterday, like I didn't know."

"Somebody complained?"

"Heck, no. The whole department knew I'd freaked out in minutes."

Charlie said, "How do they justify it?"

"Evidently, I'm a liability to my team. I'm unstable, unreliable. Told me somebody could've died, that they can't depend on me anymore, so, until I get some counseling, get cleared by a doc, I'm persona non grata."

"They can't do that."

"Can. Have," Don said briskly. "Didn't even have the courtesy to offer me a desk assignment. Not that I would've taken it. It's insulting."

"Okay, this is significant. Very timely. Fits in with why I called you."

"Significant?" Don's phone rang and with Charlie still holding onto the jacket, he snatched it out of the pocket nearest him. "Good riddance to you, too," he said, and, sitting forward, skillfully pitched it out within range like the ball player he was, right into the fountain. The resultant splash sprayed droplets over the retaining ledge, noise masked by the waterfalls.

Charlie ducked, wholly astounded. "Shutting if off would've been sufficient."

"You do it your way, I'll do it mine."

"Warn me next time." He glanced at a pair of legs below a bench, clad in corduroy and loafers, the rest of the body hidden behind a newspaper. "I saw a counselor today," he said. "He wants me to ask you…ask if you'll come in and see him, both of us, together. He feels it would facilitate—"

"Whoa. A shrink? Strike out, pal." Don abruptly reclaimed his jacket. "No way," he said, and sprung up.

"How can you say that?' Charlie said, also rising. "It's your job on the line."

"I'll take a vacation. I've accumulated a chunk of time. Fight it. Get a lawyer. Appeal. There's ways. Even feds have a right to due process. I'm not giving in yet."

"But wouldn't it be easier to comply? I mean, I know you'll get better."

"Get better? Charlie, I'm okay, yesterday was one bad day, one event. Up 'til then, I was fine. Fine!" He slung the jacket over his arm. "Let's get out of here, my vacation's expecting me."

Charlie watched Don retreat toward the fountain, thinking he would notice he wasn't with him and turn around, ask that he join him on the walk back. In the wilderness, Don had been the hero, saving his life, kept them going. To his last ounce of strength, he'd fought for their lives. Here today, it felt different. Difficult. _Complicated._

_I'm being abandoned._

"This is important," he shouted after him, but Don was well on his way. On the bench, the man with the newspaper lowered and refolded it and Charlie zoomed in on the man's denim coat, similar to Reylott's, with silver buttons and zippers, frayed collar, and backed away. With an eye on the stranger, he half-circled the fountain and forgot about his brother for a time, made sure no one was tailing him.

Finally, he gave up on finding Don and traveled back toward the courtyard on a winding path, lagging behind on a bench to sort things out, partly hidden behind a grounds keeping truck parked on the lawn. Trying to relax, he watched a gardener tend to a sprinkler head nearby.

_I won't be driven by you, Reylott, by the past, _he thought, and another plane flew by, its shadow flickering rapidly over the bench. In that interval, Reylott's ghost taunted him in return: Your brother doesn't care—not enough.

_Don doesn't hear me. Or is it that he doesn't want to? He's forgotten. In the end, I was the one who saved his life. _

_oooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOooooo_


	6. 6: ScaredyCat

**Chapter Six: _Scaredy-Cat_**

---1---

By the time the grounds-keeping truck rolled off the lawn, the park had become fuller, kids aplenty with school out for the afternoon, strollers tack-tack-tocking on the cobblestones. Feeling crowded, Charlie switched places, picking a corner bench where he sat with legs criss-crossed, arms across his lap, away from the pine trees and nearer the cherry woods, refusing to give in, to run away like a coward. He'd been clever, took a place with his back to the ivy-draped, cinder block fence, very high, a busy street and incline on the other side, a difficult approach for an assassin, anyone wanting to hurt him.

_I'm falling apart by increments. Think about something else, Eppes._ And so it went, his mind churning to and fro between disparate moods, from dread to defiance and back again. He considered calling Don's office to see if he'd returned but ruled against it. _Why should I? He left me standing alone, my hands flailing in the breeze while he dove behind his impenetrable walls. As if I'm the one who caused him to be placed on leave._

He was in the midst of asking himself how anything evil could happen here in this idyllic setting—with children all around—when he noticed her. She dabbed her eyes under the tree, the flute at her side on the grass. His gaze followed her as she packed the instrument into its case and took the path that came towards him, past the ivy corner. He said hi. Why he said anything he didn't know but she'd walked dejectedly, music clutched at her side, no joy in her eyes. Charlie considered that odd for someone who played so beautifully, who probably loved music as much as his mother had right up to her last days on Earth.

When she came near, he peeked into the hazel eyes with the glimmer, unmistakable, speckled with blue, and he knew right away she was the same woman at his door. Hair redder in sunlight, blouse in berry colors with shiny things like Amita wore, and earthy jeans which looked broken in without breaking up the gentle curves and lines of her body.

She'd never found her cat, she told him, but thanked him for asking, said she'd rented a house around the corner in Charlie's neighborhood, and had towed the cat with her from Phoenix. She'd come for her mother, who died not long after, of heart disease, decided she preferred it here, it was cooler. There'd been someone else in the picture, a fiancé, and that hadn't worked out so she'd enrolled in college using her inheritance. And here she was on a beautiful day, playing hooky and enjoying the sun, thinking about mom, how she missed her.

My name is Jacobi Genini, by the way, she said, her eyes brightening, and they shook hands.

Charlie commiserated with her, attentive only part of the time, eyes darting past her continually. Although a cute diversion, she wasn't enough to take his mind completely away from his troubles and while she shared the details of her life, he sensed the growing urge to get going, to flee. Finally, after hastily telling her about losing his mother, how things would improve, they walked together and parted at the courtyard. With a mellow good-bye, she concluded their conversation then headed to the parking garage as he watched, scanning the area intermittently.

She'd disappeared on the other side of the galleria when a passerby bumped him against the railing and he scurried out of the courtyard, uneasy. The smell of French fries sailed by on the breeze and he held his knuckles to his nose, finding it disagreeable. Against the windowless wall of a bank, he made himself inconspicuous and contacted Megan and David who were anxious to speak with him, said they hadn't been able to reach Don.

His phone's waterlogged, Charlie informed them, and he'll be available when he wants to be available, no sooner.

They were concerned about him, the way he'd stormed from the office, out of control; it wasn't like him to be volatile, indifferent towards the reactions of others. It had added to the supervisors' image of him as unstable.

_We're both off our rockers,_ Charlie thought, and aimed for home. _I've had enough for one day. Don can apologize if I'm ever ready to hear an apology. _He shook his head._ Who am I kidding? I'm worried about him._ He sorted through a mental list, places where Don might have gone, changing direction when he hit on a location with a high probability of success.

_I know where he is._

---2---

At dinnertime on weekdays, a short window of opportunity opened up when the batting range was almost vacant. This was the time Don liked to go, before fathers and sons emerged for their evening bonding rituals.

From afar, Charlie observed his brother in the cage for several minutes, gathered up what he should say. He turned to go, thinking maybe he should leave it to their father to talk to him first. _No, I have to try. _Scratching his forehead, he approached from behind the chain-link fence and noticed Don hadn't changed clothes but wore his shirttails out with old joggers he usually stored in his car trunk alongside his baseball bat. Before interrupting, Charlie allowed him to complete a swing.

"Don?" he said.

He gave him a stern look askance and Charlie realized he'd have to talk to Don's back or not talk to him at all. "Have any news on Reylott?"

The balls popped from the pitching machine every half dozen seconds, give or take, and Don slammed another one down and out into the netting with a ping on impact.

Charlie wove his fingers through the fence holes. "Should I check with David?"

"Quit being such a scaredy-cat, Charlie."

He took offense, fingers tightening on the wires. Don had a habit of being too blunt, especially with his brother. "It isn't what you said before," he said. "I did a hell of a job."

"That was then. I thought you'd grown some backbone." He glanced sideways and adjusted his stance. "Go home. Take care of yourself."

Charlie didn't know how to reply. The words burrowed into his core, where there was no one to protect you, where you bled just as certainly as if you'd been stabbed. Don may as well have been an enemy. "We can help each other, like we did before."

"This one's mine," he said, and cracked out a grounder that rocketed across the grass. "I'm getting a lawyer."

"I'm not afraid," Charlie said.

"Then why see the shrink?" Don dug into his pants pocket and popped a gum into his mouth, missing a ball. "I don't believe it. You really lost it yesterday."

The remark stung, stabbed deeper. He clenched his jaw, itching to get back at him and at the same time, feeling childish for wanting to do such a thing. But he couldn't hold his tongue. "So did you," he said, and jiggled the fence until it rattled all the way to the top just to annoy Don a little more._ That should get his attention._

Don chewed his gum harder and in the next instant, Charlie imagined his warrior brother would be scrambling over the fence with the bat poised for battle.

_Newton's third law: If you push an object, it will push back. _

Instead, Don got careless and cringed when a ball punched him between the shoulder blades. His bat thumped the ground and he drove the tip of a shoe into the loose sand, dusting the air. Charlie coughed, unintentionally breathing it in.

_Newton's first law: Until you do something to an object, it won't move._

"Damn it." Don arched back, eyes pinched shut, tears forming. He hung his fingers on the fence and crouched, went to ground. The balls continued to emerge, clattering against the fence.

Charlie stepped away, appalled with himself. "You all right?" _What have I done? _

He straightened up a bit and groaned, exhaling loudly. "You're distracting me. I told you no. Quit following me around."

Another baseball volleyed into the fence and Charlie moved in to face him, peeking through the chain-links. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to distract you."

"Get out of here," Don said, wrenching a hand up between his shoulder blades. "I need to think. This is where I think."

He stooped down to match Don's eyes, seeking a connection—feeling guiltier than ever. Don held his head down and avoided him, refused to meet his gaze.

"Talk to me," Charlie said, wiggling the fence as a ball popped out, struck it. "What's bugging you so much?" The pitching machine had gone quiet and from the cage next door, the cheers of a squealing teenaged girl filled the range.

Moving quickly, Don removed his helmet, let it drop. He seemed eager to get away and got up, stretching his once-burned arm. Recovering, he escaped towards the parking lot, hunched over, bat under his arm.

Charlie retreated from the fence and trailed him across the next field, repeating, "Don, please, I'm sorry." As they came to the edge of the property, he halted, unsure what more he could say or do to make things right, while Don went on. _He's doing it again, why do I try?_ He took a few steps out into the lot. "We can work this out," he said. "I"ll make it up to you."

Don had reached his car, was opening the door.

_Can't force him to open up. _

Without turning, Don got in, shut the door.

_It's his way._

The car's tail lights came on, red, glaring.

_You're the one who said not to give up. _

The car backed out.

_Said you'd walk me through it._

The car went round to the driveway, into the street.

_I'm going through it now._

_oooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOooooo _


	7. 7: Chasm

**Chapter Seven: _Chasm_**

Charlie was ashamed. He'd been weak, given in to fear. If Don could handle the stress without relying on outside help, then he would, too. "Hell," he said aloud. "I beat Reylott the first time, I can do it again if I have to, by myself." As he spoke, doubts seeped in, unwelcome and annoying, and he locked them away, concluding that he didn't need go back to Volkov. Eventually, the doc would get around to asking him about his sex life. _Off limits_, Charlie thought, _private._

Returning to campus, he defied his frazzled nerves and the threatening night, hurrying towards his office under the yellow glare of lights. Students trudged to and from classes, talking on cell phones, uninterested in anything but their conversations. Near the science building, he came to the row of prickly plants which lined the pathway, a Great Wall of shrubs with gaping chasms every twenty feet or so between buildings where darkness maliciously disguised itself as benign emptiness. From the end of the row, he peered down the long line, unable to proceed, and pictured a gangly arm darting out of the dark to wrench his neck in two. It depressed him.

He withdrew, turned back and contacted David to query him about the Reylott sightings. The only information he could provide was that no additional reports had been filed and that it was highly probable it was merely someone who resembled Reylott because witnesses regularly misidentified suspects.

Charlie reassured himself what David was saying was true, evaluated the margin of error. From cases he'd consulted on, he'd learned false sightings were numerous.

Hanging up, he soldiered home in heavy traffic and entered the house pensively, reviewing the afternoon's events, when his father rushed downstairs, asked why he hadn't called back. Charlie felt attacked, dumped his briefcase on the coffee table and told him he had other things on his mind.

Alan was distressed, said everyone was looking for Don.

"The whole world?" Charlie said. _The world loves to worry about the big brother, but not the little one. _

"This is serious," Alan said. "He's been put on—"

"Leave. Yeah, I know." Charlie walked toward the stairs. "I've spoken with him." _Yeah, he's that special._

"Where's he now?"

He placed a foot on the first step. "How should I know?" he said, and began to climb.

His father persisted. "Is he okay? Megan said he was outraged."

Halfway up, Charlie paused, reluctantly. "He's going to fight it."

"She says he'll need medical clearance. It's mandatory."

"He thinks there's a way around that." _Because Don knows everything. _

"There is? I certainly hope so," Alan said. "What about you? How'd it go with Dr. Volkov?"

Charlie had to deal with it; his father would disapprove. "Look, Dad," he said, gathering his resolve. "I'm not going back to him."

"I'm not pleased to hear that." Alan climbed a few steps. "You'll only prolong what's going on."

"It's my decision." _My life._

"What? One visit and you know already? You haven't given him a chance."

"Stay out of it, Dad." _I didn't pick the guy, you did. _

"Stay?" Alan said. "How about I stay in bed and go back to sleep with my son yelling in the next room in the middle of the night?"

"I know, I know you've been there but there're some things a man has to decide for himself."

"Charlie, a man doesn't hide from what he has to do. It takes courage to wade through all that stuff inside that piles up and drags us down, makes us unhappy."

"Who said I was unhappy?" There was a pleading in his father's eyes—beneath the concern and above the annoyance—that made Charlie want to spit out his feelings yet spare him from them.

"Come on, you're my son. I've seen you go through every emotion under the stars. I'm very disappointed."

He chose to spare him. "I'll be good, you'll see."

Alan said, "What happened between you and Don?"

"Nothing." Charlie realized his dad could read him like the Times. "He's mad. His bosses are going by the book." _And I'm just a newspaper_. He ascended, speaking as he did. "I don't think they'll be cutting him any slack."

"I hope yours will be more forgiving."

Charlie turned on the landing. "What?"

"You need to call Larry," Alan said. "Now."

oooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOooooo


	8. 8: Sundial

**Chapter Eight: _Sundial_**

---1---

Larry had bad news: Some extremely vocal students are complaining, he said, admin insists on speaking with you—the head of the department to begin with. It's caught up with you, Charles, they want to know why you've missed so many classes without notifying anyone or getting someone to cover for you, why you cancelled the other sessions and particularly why you didn't take care of this sooner, before the situation got out of hand. Your argument in the hallway with Professor Weeks didn't help matters. He has your number, Charles, and he wasn't timid about adding it to his very candid opinion and the voices of the students. I've done what I can to mitigate these circumstances in your absence, but you must step forward and defend yourself or risk irreversible repercussions.

Charlie listened without comment and said he'd take care of it, hung up without saying goodbye. He retrieved the black bat and in his study, put on earphones, indulging in that sensory-pounding music he'd been looking forward to all day, and pondered which students could be so hasty in their judgments, which colleagues. The spoiled ones, he reasoned, who are threatened by the slightest variation in their precious schedules.

_How's this for a variation in your_ _schedule?---_Scaling a mountain under a madman's sniper fire, freezing and caked in mud, dragging your bleeding, concussive brother—who can barely lift his feet—in a desperate fight to save yourselves from crashing down onto the rocks below or from getting shot in the head.

On the chalkboard, he erased a portion of his current explorations into cognitive theory in favor of a newer project—the armillary sphere sundial, which, after a little research, he would try to build himself. It would be metal, black with gold etchings and numbers, classic but unstuffy, modern and unpretentious. With a fresh chalk, he drew a flat ring five centimeters wide. It filled the board. Inside, he intersected two additional rings: a thick, tilted ring called the elliptic, which represented the sun and planets; and a thinner one which represented the earth's equator.

Next, he split the first ring in two with a rod shooting from the lower left to the upper right, like an arrow through a heart. On the outside of the elliptic he confidently added symbols for the signs of the zodiac and inside, Roman numerals which indicated the time of day, then labeled everything. With a few details and shading, he pulled it into three-dimensionality and retreated to the old couch to review his work.

He rested temporarily, tapping the chalk to his lip, humming and whistling randomly, the bat on the couch, and shortly rose to include a base on the skeletal sphere and structural details on the rod, called a gnomon, which would be set parallel to the Earth's axis, casting its shadow on the equatorial band. Angles would have to be adjusted for accuracy and he preferred it be at least forty centimeters in diameter or larger to create a stunning sight.

For precise readings, the sundial had to be level, positioned east to west, with the gnomon directly above twelve o'clock on the band. It would also have to be customized to the exact latitude and longitude of the city: thirty-three degrees, fifty-six minutes north; one hundred and eighteen degrees, twenty-four minutes west, respectively. He had a lot of work to do.

Stepping back, he analyzed it and began another sketch on the second chalkboard, rendering a map of the garden, the pond, trees, and flowerbeds in relative position to the house, envisioning where it would look best from the windows. Occasionally, a stray cat would monitor the koi and fantasize about actually nabbing one of the big fish and Charlie was concerned those cats could also get into the nasty habit of marking his sundial as their territory. Because of this, he drew the sphere in on the map near the house, outside the back window, reasoning that the felines might be hindered from claiming it as their own if they saw humans in motion.

Finished, he slipped off the earphones. _Cats. I wonder if Jacobi is home_. There was a torn piece of notepad paper…somewhere. And his mind backtracked to where he'd put it. In his pants or on the table? Didn't throw it away, wouldn't have done that. In his bedroom, he found the number in his jeans, in the laundry, and called her, going back to his study to chat.

She said she lived about a block or two over, round a couple of corners, and was having a late dinner and studying, still no cat.

Even on the phone, she had an approachable manner and Charlie felt at ease, began to tell her about his musical mother, how she gave up Vienna for the law and his father, and how he sometimes heard her voice calling him in the morning—_get up, time for school_—and Jacobi said she'd had the same experience with her mom. He talked about how his dad technically lived with him, how he'd grown up in the Craftsman home and loved it, could never part with it, would like to raise his own family there. Jacobi loved the Craftsman, too.

He told her about his latest project; she said it would be a fantastic addition, complimenting him on his creativity, impressed by his career.

As their discussion hit its stride, Charlie rediscovered a phenomenon of human nature, one that happens between two people who've just met. He'd opened up to her, a virtual stranger, revealing details about his inner life—feeling safe to do so, actually relieved. Details he'd been unable to share with family or friends.

He mentioned Reylott and she reacted with grace, told him she recalled reading something about the case, the FBI man missing and the search, that they'd been found alive. She was glad they'd survived, found it unbelievable anyone could be that cruel.

Charlie confided, telling her facts the newspapers had never known, about the unbearability of having killed someone; about Don and his struggles and the Reylott sightings. Volkov. Post stress. Dad. Larry. Work. Charlieland.

"You've had a tough time of it, haven't you?" she said.

He plucked ragged threads from the hem of his jeans, finding it difficult to continue talking, to answer that particular question. She understood him. "Still am," he said.

"A man who's come through so much can't give up," she said. "Our moms would want us to work it out, no matter what we have to do."

_Finally someone who simply listens to me without being paid to, who doesn't ask prying questions or make judgments or expect what I can't give them. Who lets me be me, accepts where I am, and doesn't give me grief. _"Thanks," he said, smoothing the threads down. "Would you like to get together some time?"

She said she'd enjoy that and he invited her to lunch. After hanging up, he realized that toward the end of their conversation he'd forgotten about Reylott—for a few minutes at least.

An hour later, there was a knock at the door. _Not now. _Charlie was on his laptop, working out an auto design of his sphere, calculating its dimensions.

Another knock, louder.

"Who is it?" he said.

"Who do you think it is?"

Charlie let his father in and went back to the couch.

Alan carried a tray of food. "You must be hungry," he said, and put the food down on the rickety table against the inner wall. "Eat."

Charlie thanked him.

His father dawdled, perusing the chalkboards. "I didn't know you were having art class in here."

"It's a sundial."

"I can see that. You aren't planning on not being a mathematician any longer, are you?"

He saved his design. "Don't worry, Dad, simply a project. Something I've been wanting to do, a custom-made sphere for the garden."

"This is incredible," Alan said, raising his arms, obviously upset. "Aren't you concerned about work?"

"I'm tenured. They can't fire me."

"Charlie, sometimes the more we hide, the more we're noticed."

"I'm not hiding," he said. "I'm conferring with myself."

"No one's been able to reach Don. David's on the way to his apartment."

Charlie's gaze remained on his sphere. He was tired of hearing about Don.

Alan shook his head, fingers on the doorknob. "Whole family's gone to H-E-double toothpicks."

---2---

Charlie ate half the grilled sandwich his father had delivered, drank the hot tea which, by the time he got to it, was tepid. He'd become dehydrated without noticing and gulped it down. Before closing his laptop for the night, he received news from his father about Don: He was cocooned at home, didn't want to be bothered, David thinks he needs some time, that's all, he'll hopefully come to his senses and call us tomorrow.

_Special Agent Don, the Notable Eppes. Sir Don, Protector of the World. Status not subject to debate. _

He fell asleep where he sat, away from the bed of demons and nightmares. Unfortunately, the demons and nightmares and their companion, Reylott's ghost—a sort of Tortuous Trinity—all had prior knowledge of Charlie's whereabouts and followed him there, making sleep sporadic, plagued by an incongruent mixture of images ranging from shreds of bad dreams to pleasant ones of Jacobi, her speckled eyes inviting, to others of Don at the batting range, his body spotted with burn scars. Somehow, the wacky mixture combined to rot everything in the basket along with it, swallowing up the good images and feelings with the bad so that in the morning, he didn't feel very well and it felt as though the moth had returned, fluttering in his stomach.

Before washing up, he called into work, bypassing Larry, told his superiors he'd had a family emergency and wouldn't be in until further notice. He recommended one of his assistants cover his classes in the meantime.

The head of the department grumbled, told him there were recent erratic behaviors Charlie must account for, that this couldn't go on indefinitely.

Charlie grumbled back, told him there were plenty of other universities that would be happy to hire a highly skilled polymath on the spot.

He went up to his bedroom, heard Alan downstairs in the kitchen, and prepared for lunch with Jacobi, determined to have a nice, easy-going day. She'd suggested they meet at a café near the park at noon between her classes.

His father came up, greeted him with a smile, less tense than the previous night, and asked him about Volkov. Charlie told him he would reassess his decision then crossed his fingers hoping he would drop the matter.

Alan was dressed to go out. "I feel I should stick around," he said. "I keep remembering you're supposed to be at work."

Charlie sat to pull on socks. "I'm meeting a girl, Dad."

"Well, under normal circumstances I'd be elated, but since you and Don have been having such a hard time of it, I'm not so sure that's a good idea."

"She's beautiful," he said, tying his shoelaces. "She reminds me of mom in some ways."

"Really? Lot to live up to. Who is she?"

"Jacobi Genini. Lives nearby. First year music major at UC."

"Little young for you?"

"It's her second degree. She has a bachelor's in poly sci a few years old."

"I wouldn't move too fast," Alan said. "Your problems won't go away just because you meet somebody you think is beautiful."

Charlie got up, going to the closet for a shirt. "I didn't say they had." He selected a white one. "For my sanity, Dad," he said, putting it on. "I need to play."

Alan straightened his son's collar. "You two suffered a lot. You didn't deserve it. Don won't talk about it anymore. I don't know what to do for either of you. I'm lost."

From the nightstand, Charlie picked up his watch, clipped it on. "I'm going out, aren't I? I'm not hiding."

"Call if you want anything. I'll be seeing how your brother's doing." He gave him a tap on the face. "Play nice."

_oooooOOOOOoooo_


	9. 9: Punch Line

**Chapter Nine: _Punch Line_**

---1---

Lunch outdoors, albeit on a mild afternoon and at a suitable table, was too much public exposure for Charlie. Before they were served, he asked Jacobi if she wouldn't mind moving into the café. Inside, he relaxed, feeling less like he might be ambushed at any second. Similar to a disease, fear had infected him, multiplying and spreading at will though he tried to suppress it.

Jacobi seemed to pick up on his jitteriness. "This has to do with what happened to you, doesn't it?"

He pushed his utensils aside, realized his appetite was weak. "It's been a growing problem. I can't seem to contain it."

"Charlie," she said, leaning forward. "A physicist, a chemist, and a mathematician were stranded on an island. A can of food washes ashore and the chemist and the physicist get together and come up with all sorts of brilliant, ingenious ways to open it. All of a sudden, the mathematician gets a bright idea and says, _'Assume we have a can opener_...'"

Charlie laughed, although he'd heard it before. But he was touched she'd try to cheer him up. "You memorized that for me?"

She appeared to be having fun with him, dove into another joke: "The Dean says to the physics department, 'Why do I always have to give you guys so much money for laboratories and expensive equipment and stuff. Why couldn't you be like the math department—all they need is money for pencils, paper and trashcans. Or even better, like the philosophy department—all they need are pencils and paper'."

He hadn't heard it and let out a genuine laugh. "I like that one," he said, and their salads were served. Picking up a fork, he nudged a tomato slice to the side of the plate as if it wasn't supposed to be there.

"Here's one from my major," she said. "What's the difference between a violin and a viola?"

Charlie didn't know.

"There is no difference. The violin just looks smaller because the violinist's head is so much bigger."

"I see, string player social hierarchies."

"I'm bombing, aren't I?" She labored on. "What's the first thing a musician says at work?"

Charlie guessed. "I'm counting on you guys?"

She thanked him for trying then revealed the punch line: "'Would you like fries with that'?"

His mood lightened over the mealand he rediscovered his appetite, resurrected jokes of his own, filtering out those a layperson wouldn't comprehend. Afterwards, she encouraged him to indulge in fresh air and coaxed him into the park, saying she'd protect him, that she knew karate and kung fu and Chuck Norris law-and-order kicks. By the time they'd strolled to the pergola on the north side, he was delighted, lured away from his troubles.

The opportunity was inescapable. As they walked down the pergola, their knuckles bumped and they held hands, lightly. He told her he'd like to hear her play the flute again, and she offered to come by and do so.

"Our careers are cousins," he said, dodging a hanging vine. "Math and music are interrelated."

Her eyes lit up. "Yes, almost fourth dimensional in scope."

"Take ratios," he said, testing to see how much she knew, how agile her mind was. Some people were stumped by the most basic concepts. "Tones are comprised of ratios. For instance, on a guitar I can change the ratio by shortening or lengthening the strings." He let her hand go and they stopped walking while he demonstrated his version of air guitar. "It works on a ratio of 2:1, so if the "A" string is one meter long, then the next "A" lower will be two meters long, or, if you go up, it'll be half a meter long. A perfect fourth is 4:3 and—"

"A perfect fifth is 3:2. Low tones are longer, higher ones shorter."

"Correct." Charlie was satisfied, pleased she hadn't given him a blank stare. "On your flute, it's done with the valves by altering the corridors of the tubing. The longer the tube, the lower it is."

"I feel smarter," she said. "Just talking to you."

He smiled, cradled her hand. "I've got a million of 'em."_ So different from my first date with Amita._ If it had been as simple to impress Amita, we would've been an item by now—and I wouldn't be here with Jacobi. The two scenarios were directly opposed.

Charlie heard a shuffling behind them and he turned. A man in tan boots had been trailing them, walking a black Labrador. The boots demanded Charlie's attention, reminded him of Reylott's. _I have to stop being spooked by my own imagination._

"Uh, I hate to say it," Jacobi said, checking her watch. "I gotta' go. I have voice at three and the traffic never cooperates."

His mood sank. Back to the real world. The man in boots had come closer and Charlie held her arm, escorted her away from the pergola to a grove of trees about ten feet out. In an adjacent field, a group of young men were engaged in a football game.

"You seem nervous yet," she said. "Want me to stay?"

"No, I'm fine." He glanced left to right. "I'm a little nervous. Sometimes it feels like I have about as much resistance as the surface tension on a water drop." He clapped his hands. "Pop!"

"Poor Charlie." She reached up, fingers over his jaw line, into his hair. "Silky. I was intrigued."

Surprised, he felt a torrent of tickles cascade down his spine. "_Assume we have a few more hours..._" he said, and their lips met. But mid-kiss, Charlie stumbled, pushed forward by the Labrador who'd unexpectedly brushed between the backs of his knees and a tree.

"Perfect punch line," she said, and they watched the dog run barking into the field, chasing birds, with the man running after it.

He released her hand. "You should go. You'll miss your class."

Charlie offered to walk her to her car; Jacobi declared it wasn't necessary, it was a long stretch and she'd have to rush, be boring company. He didn't press it, feeling he'd moved too fast, recalling his father's advice: Problems don't go away because you meet someone.

As he turned to go, the man with the boots popped out from between the trees and Charlie drew aside, moving away from him.

Strolling near Charlie, the man shortened the leash, bringing the Lab under control. "That your wife?" he said, telling the dog to mind. "Think I've seen her here before."

Suspicious, Charlie picked up his pace to add a little distance and headed toward the main pathway. "A friend."

The man remained parallel to him. "Pretty thing," he said. "You should marry her." He veered off to the east. "Have a nice day."

Charlie said, "You, too," but didn't mean it, and hurried out from the trees, feeling skittish, and exited the park.

---2---

At the courtyard—_I'm near Don's office_—he considered visiting Megan and, maybe, Don had gone back to work? No, not without the psych evaluation. If he saw Don, Charlie wasn't sure he could look him in the eye. He was disheartened that his brother would tell him one thing one day and another thing the next, urge him to get counseling then call him a scaredy-cat.

Megan was in. She knew what he was there for as soon as he walked up, taking him directly to the conference room.

She closed the door. "He won't call back," she said, arms crossed. "I'm sick of answering machines. You having any luck?"

"My father went over today. Perhaps he'll be able to change his mind." Over the width of the display board, photos of a bombing site had been hung and Charlie scanned them casually.

"You haven't seen him?" she said.

"No, I…we had an argument." He buried a hand in his pocket. His fingertips were cold. _Air conditioning_ _must be set low_, he figured, _room's freezing._

She took a seat. "I heard you've had a few stresses of your own."

He slid a photograph over, hanging it straight. "We assumed it would be easier than this. I think we're both somewhat overwhelmed."

"Somewhat? If you'd been here after that meeting—I've never seen Don like that."

Charlie rearranged two small photos. "He's displayed a different side to me, too."

"Don's never talked much about what happened," she said. "No one knows the details of what went on between him and Reylott when they were alone. He just says he lost it when he believed you'd died in the fire. Then he shuts down. I think it still terrifies him."

"I don't understand him."

"What'd he do?" she said. "Storm out on you, too?

"He supported dad's idea about seeing a counselor, tried to persuade me to see one. But he wouldn't consider it for himself." Charlie turned from the photos, slid out a chair but didn't sit. "After he was put on leave, he flip-flipped on me, said I had no backbone because I was concerned about Reylott."

"We had another sighting today, sorry."

"Great."

"Don cares about you, Charlie." She asked him to sit with her and he did. "He's projecting his own embarrassment about having a panic attack on the job right onto you. He's frustrated, not only for breaking down at work but out there, when Reylott was pushing his buttons. He's embarrassed, probably ashamed. And you remind him of all of it." She rested her hand on his. "When he sees you, he's seeing what he's trying to forget."

Her palm was warm, comforting. "He hasn't anything to be ashamed about," he said. _Neither do I. _

"You and I know that. He's one of the toughest agents I've ever met. Capable, terrific leader. But his identity's been shook up. He isn't going to get over it quickly. Why don't you go see him? Tell him Megan has a pile of files ten feet high on her desk."

"I'm not prepared to. I'm pissed at him."

"The sooner you deal with it, the sooner you'll both improve," she said. "As for Reylott's whereabouts—unconfirmed, some conflicting details on the clothing and beard, no beard. At this point, I'm convinced it's just a doppelganger and a bunch of bored citizens."

Charlie got up to leave. "I have a headache."

"You're a little pale." She reached over and touched his forehead. "All this would put a strain on anybody."

"Thanks," he said, feeling queasy. "It's been a rollercoaster."

_oooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOooooo_


	10. 10: Fever

**Chapter Ten: _Fever _**

---1---

It wasn't the mysteriously broken window that made Charlie lose his lunch. It was the panic, he reasoned, and everything piling up and dragging him down, like Dad had said.

Later, the actual cause of his swirling stomach came to light.

The broken window in question was one at the rear door of his home which looked over the garden, the one by which he'd planned to set the armillary sphere. He was already indoors before he saw the shattered glass and pulled a fast 180, bolting out through the front, afraid someone was in the house. He summoned police, voice wound up like a spring, and remained outdoors to wait. The officers investigated, combing the premises, upstairs and down, and cleared it. No burglars, but the lock on the back door may have been tampered with, they said; it was scratched.

When they left, Charlie inspected the lock, ran his fingertips over its roughness. Had it always had these marks? No, it hadn't. He concluded that it had been an attempted break-in and if Reylott had reappeared, this was his calling card; it fit his MO. Although the madman was partial to showy crimes such as killing koi, he also enjoyed toying with your psyche like he had when he'd tampered with Don's boots by the tent, spying on them prior to making his move.

Charlie's feet crunched over glass shards and he swore he heard a thump from upstairs.With his back against the wall, he crouched down to make himself smaller but panic superseded his best efforts at bravery and he hurried to the kitchen. There he obtained a knife and wandered through the rooms to prove to himself it was unoccupied. Heartbeats pulsated in his ears and his hands shook but the last thing he wanted was to hyperventilate—or actually run into anyone—and he cupped apalm over his mouth periodically. When he got to the bathroom, he locked the door, dropped the knife on the sink and knelt, nauseated.

With an emptied belly, he headed to the place he felt most safe: his garage study, carrying extra blankets. He was freezing, hounded by chills. Securing the door against threat, he reclined on the old green couch under the blankets, turning to his side, lethargic and woozy. He couldn't keep his eyes from closing.

The nightmares were brisk. He awoke perspiring, dumped the blankets to the floor and lay sprawled and hot, a leg over the side, arm limp and hung over the edge. The fever had arrived full force and in his jeans pocket, the cell phone was ringing.

He swept a hand across his forehead, brought it down wet. _On fire in Charlieland_. His back ached on either side of his spine and even the cushions were like wood against it. He swallowed. Something new: throat's sore. Add to pain in rest of torso, the hammering in my head. _God, it's a furnace. Water._

---2---

"Charles?"

_Larry?_ Charlie cracked his eyes to confirm. "You're here," he said, hushed.

"Of course—I'm aware of where you hide the key, although I would predict any half-witted criminal would be able to ascertain that the gray resin toad sitting in the plantar is the first place to inspect." He picked a blanket up from the floor, examined Charlie's face. "You're ill."

"Go away. You'll catch it."

"I don't think so," Larry said. "I've always been gifted with a sort of metaphysical—yes, even _uber_-physical—resistance to common viruses. My father was likewise a person of supernatural stamina although his appearance gave the impression he could never lift anything over ten pounds." He placed three fingers on Charlie's forehead. "I would guess you have the latest incarnation of influenza as the season has begun in earnest. I've had an increase in absences this week."

Charlie nodded a dim response.

Larry piled the blankets on the desk, glancing at the chalkboard drawings. "Where is your father?" he said.

"He…" Charlie rubbed his throat. "At Don's."

"I'm sorry, my manners—is there something I can retrieve for you?

He mimed a drink and Larry disappeared, fetching a glass of water and aspirin. Charlie sat up slightly and gulped them down.

"I see you have a broken window," Larry said. "Shame."

Trying to focus, Charlie explained the eventful afternoon.

"This has been a difficult week for you, Charles. I stopped by to mend our differences, encourage you to accept that it's crucial you go to campus and explain yourself to Dr. Weeks and…never mind. You get well first. Ignore me. Don't concern yourself with any of what I just said."

He acknowledged with a grunt, indicating with a wave his need for a blanket.

Larry brought one, laid it over him then wandered to the chalkboard nearest the couch. "Your father's told me you and Don aren't speaking."

The aspirin was taking effect, taming the intensity of Charlie's aches. "We've been arguing, in excess."

"This will make a beautiful addition to the house," he said, studying Charlie's rendering of the sundial. "Things will work out between you and Don. You two are like two circles on a sphere." He traced a finger slowly round the outer ring of the sundial. "Your lives have crossed at one point, now they have no other way to go but to cross back again at a second point. It's inevitable."

Charlie scrunched the blanket under his chin. "Don't go. Lock the door—burglars."

He looked at him, silent for a short while. "I won't go. Not until your father arrives."

_oooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOooooo_


	11. 11: Earth to Charlie

**Chapter Eleven: _Earth to Charlie_**

---1---

Charlie's nightmare played out like a film:

_Mottled concrete walls enclose a water-stained floor littered with metal debris: half-rings and broken rods—someone's failed attempt at constructing an armillary sphere. Men and women—haggard and thirsty—crowd before a ceiling-high, iron pocket door, desperate to slide it open. __Charlie, speaking with authority, entreats them to cease arguing and wasting time, to work together and do as he asks because he can get them out before they all perish. _

_Tempers flare and an angry man orders him to shut up, to quit acting like he knows everything. Calmly, Charlie insists the man cooperate and turns back to the others, then, as his view changes to that of spectator, he watches the angry man grab a rod and raise it high, striking him across the neck. _

_Charlie arches backwards, collapsing to the floor where he tips to his back, paralyzed. Reylott appears, bending over him when he hadn't been there before, saying, "You're dying. You can't lift your head, can you?" In the faces around him, Charlie searches for Don but finds no one who can befriend him and wakes up, shouting. _

"Calm down. It's one of those dreams, it isn't real."

Someone was speaking, folding blankets off his chest. _Not Larry._

"Let's get you to your room, Charlie, you'll be comfortable there."

_Dad?_

"Dad's right. You should be in the house."

_Don? _His brother was beside him, on the couch. _Delirious in Charlieland, disoriented._ He twisted away. "No, he's in there."

"Reylott?" Alan said. "I wish you'd stuck with Dr.Volkov. Come on, up." He took Charlie under the arms, pushed him into a sitting position. "Inside…wow, you're burning."

Unhappy and bothered, he felt too ill to walk. "It's safer here."

Don lowered his brother's leg to the floor. "Just a short trip," he said, and they got him to his feet. "Then you can get your shoes off."

"Run faster if they're on," he said, and started forward. His father had one elbow, Don the other.

"Yeah, well," Don said, "I don't think you'll be competing in any marathons for a while."

"My mouth's dry," Charlie said. _Andlegs are four-by-fours, ready to crumble. _

Alan led the way. "When you're settled in your room, I'll get you some juice."

"Where's Larry?" He hesitated at the doorway, puzzled. "Was he real?"

"He had to leave," Don said. "One foot in front of the other…that's the way."

Charlie allowed himself to be led out, then halted. "My room?—no no no, my room's a bad place."

"Where's your logic?" Don carried a blanket over his arm. "There isn't anything wrong with your room that hasn't been wrong the last twenty years."

_He wants to trick me, _thought Charlie, and he fussed, pulling away.

"All right," Alan said. "We'll go to Don's room. Keep going."

Up the now extra-long stairs, Charlie sat at the bed and Alan removed one of his shoes, Don the other, then changed clothes and climbed in. The bed was cool and wide and he found he was indeed comfortable where his limbs weren't slipping to the floor and covers weren't falling away. He listened in a daze, wondering where his juice was, while his father and brother discussed him in the hallway.

Don sounded upset. "Did you see this?" he said. "This was on his desk. It's information on buying a gun, list of most popular models."

"I hadn't," Alan said. "But I don't think he'd actually go through with it."

Don's voice softened, as though he'd realized he were speaking too harshly. "I also found a knife in the bathroom. He isn't thinking clearly."

Alan agreed. "Let him sleep."

Charlie called out to them. "The window…"

Don entered. "It's cool, we know, it's broken. All swept up," he said, and placed bottled water on the nightstand.

_Juice?_

"I went through every room," Don said, "every closet, didn't see anything that would indicate we had a break-in."

"Bugs?" Charlie said.

"Checked. No sign of electronic surveillance. Neighborhood looks regular. Snooze, don't worry." Don switched off the lamp and Charlie shot up, alarmed, insisting it be left on.

"Charlie, if you keep chickening out you'll never get over it."

"Leave it on."

"Fine. How about I leave the hall light?" Don said. "We'll be here in case anything happens, which it won't."

He lay back on the pillow. "Don't close the door."

---2---

Charlie rolled to his side and squished the comforter, eyes too fiery to unfasten. Damp hair stuck to his forehead and he brushed it back, listening. Somewhere, _Greensleeves _was playing. Not in my music collection, not in Dad's, I think. On flute. Good quality, lifelike. Neighbors. Radio. My subconscious? What time is it? He squinted at the clock on the wall but his vision blurred with fever, over 103 since nightfall the previous day.

The half-closed door squeaked and Alan appeared. "How's it going?"

He was motionless. The music had departed. All night he'd gone from chill to sizzle and back again. "Beaten."

"Here's your medicine." He put the pills on the stand, wrapped a hand on Charlie's forearm. "Like the music? Your friend came by last night. Told her you were sick and she asked if she could play something for you this morning, make you feel better."

"Nice try," Charlie said. "Didn't mind."

"She brought cookies. Tasty. Hurry and get over this, they'll be gone."

_Eating—some other century._ Charlie coughed, curled up. For the rest of the day, he forgot anyone was ever in the room.

---3---

Don's face hovered over the bed. "Charlie, take your pills, keeps the fever down."

He rested on his stomach, twisting to flip over. His bones and muscles protested. Silently, he took the water and pills from Don, swallowed and gave back the water. He groaned, became acutely aware of the demands of nature. He'd have to force himself out of bed when he hadn't dared think about being upright.

_It can't wait. _"I have to go," he said.

"Go where? You're running out of rooms."

Charlie pointed to the bath and propped up. Swaying, he fell back on an elbow, lightheaded. So near, so far.

"Steady as he goes," Don said, and helped him out of bed.

He teetered at the footboard, on the verge of toppling. The movement had aggravated his headache. "I'm all right," he said, and hobbled off to business.

By the time he got back, Don had fluffed up the covers and Charlie gratefully crawled under them.

"There," Don said. "Want anything?"

He denied he did. When the illness had added insult to injury, sadness had overwhelmed him. He felt sorry for himself but wasn't proud of it. His brother's presence was bothersome—after all that had transpired between them, Don was hanging around as if everything were warm and fuzzy.

"You must really be sick, you're really quiet," Don said. He stood at the window, nudged the curtains wider. "Not faking it like when we were kids, to get out of school."

Charlie balled a sheet up in his fists, blinked at the light fixture above.

Don turned around. "Earth to Charlie."

"Why are you here?" he said, and regretted it as soon as he'd asked. The question had come out tinged with anger—because he still was. _I haven't chickened out. _

Don peeked out below at a spot in the garden, behaving as though he hadn't heard. "Explain the flute. Who was she?"

"Asked her to play, before I got sick."

"Lucky you," he said. "Good eye. And Amita?"

"Bad timing," Charlie said. "Busy. Bored with me. You pick."

"I came over to talk. Didn't know you had the flu."

"Can't think..." He yawned and closed his eyes, his mind drifting off, but he sensed Don had moved away from the window when a shadow fell over his lids.

"Listen," Don said. "I've made a decision…Charlie?"

He felt a light touch on his shoulder, exhaled softly. "Huh?"

"I'm going back to the woods. Up Mean Marmot Trail."

_What? _Charlie had tuned him out, burying his nose in the pillow, and fallen asleep.

_oooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOooooo_


	12. 12: Orange Ribs

**Chapter Twelve: _Orange Ribs _**

Roused by a truck rumbling down the street, Charlie peered through the parted curtains and noticed strange clouds meandering above the treetops. They were washed orange in sunset, a memorable formation shaped like a rib cage set on its side and comprised of vertical streaks with a horizontal aisle down the middle where a sternum would be. In his illness—with eyeballs backlit by an oven and congestion gathering in his lungs—it was surreal.

He dreamed of ribs—his own rib cage, front and back. Except this cage was stainless steel, not bone, and sealed with a padlock. Within the cage, the former Charlie languished in imprisonment, thin and wan like the emaciated children in _A Christmas Carol. _Without shattering the rib-bars he would never be able to escape, yet they remained part of him. He tried rattling the bars with firm tugs but induced pain, shaped like an "H" on his back, the center line across his shoulder blades. The black bat materialized in his hands and he whacked it across the bars. The backlash drove him to his knees, vibrations coursing into his bones and throughout his body, exacerbating his pain.

_Aspirin. Did I ever get juice? _He was alone. Voices traveled up from downstairs and he understood every few words.

Don had spoken with him earlier—but if he'd been offered the solutions to every mathematical enigma in the universe, he wouldn't be able to remember exactly what Don had said to him. Something about going somewhere. The flu drug had knocked him out, impaired his perceptions. As it wore off, the aches would build and he'd go another round of roasting, throat scratchier, headache braced at a million revolutions per minute. The bed had grown lumpy and he longed to go downstairs to the brown leather sofa, find out if it would make a difference to his sensitive muscles. He flipped the pillow, searching for coolness against his face, and tossed—on a side, tangled in covers, curled up or spread-eagled, legs kicking, squirming and finicky, with arms on the pillow, over his head, to the sides, crossed under and repeating at the pillow, back where he'd begun. And to add to everything: the outside of his ear was tender, from sleeping on it folded.

He picked up the thermometer, gauged his temp. Half degree down. Whoopee. Why does it feel like it's up two? _It's wearing me down._ A shower would be cooling.

The orange ribs had changed color, faded to salmon and gray, dissipating in the troposphere. Charlie dozed but when he awakened it was darker; there was no light in the room. He slid over and stretched, flicked the lamp on the stand to low, his fear allayed, the Trinity kept at bay.

He had a craving for water, ice cold, with a mass of cubes and condensation dripping gleefully off the glass. He pictured pouring it down his parched mouth, soothing the heat, and reached for the water bottle—empty.

Charlie recognized the voices—_Dad and Don, who else?_—and eavesdropped. Why was Don still here? To apologize?

His father's voice got louder, urgent. "Donny," he was saying. "Sometimes we don't have a choice."

"I have a choice, Dad."

"Well, you're choosing against yourself. We have to bend with the wind or we'll break."

In increments, Charlie rose from bed and paused as his balance stabilized.

Don defended himself. "Look, when I get back, I'll figure it out. If we're going to argue, I may as well leave now."

"Have you told Charlie?" Alan said.

"I gave it a shot, but he wasn't up to it. He didn't hear me—or pretended not to."

At the bedroom door, Charlie's ears pricked up, bottle in hand, prepared to fetch the cold water for himself since they'd forgotten about him. _Neglected in Charlieland._

"You should wait 'til he's better," Alan said. "What happened between you two?"

"I said some things."

"He's too sick to remember right now."

"Sick or no, he doesn't forget things," Don said. "I know him."

"I'm staying out of it this time. You'll have to settle it yourselves."

Don sounded brusque. "I didn't ask you to help us settle it."

The conversation ceased and in the interim, Charlie exited the bedroom, swaying, and came to the top of the stairs. The discussion resumed below.

Alan seemed to take pity on his oldest son. "I wish you'd go to that appointment."

"Out of the question," Don said. "You may as well give up, Dad, my mind's made up. Soon as I tell Charlie, I go. He should be better tomorrow."

Charlie descended the first stair step, wearing PJ bottoms and a T-shirt, barefoot.

"He won't like it either," Alan said.

After five steps, Charlie squeezed his eyelids shut, dizzy after peering down the stairwell, and he pressed his shoulder to the wall.

"Doesn't matter what he likes, this is mine to do," Don said. "But I owe him an explanation after everything we've gone through."

"Your brother could use some guidance from you. He should be in therapy. Damn it, he hates guns but he's looked into buying one. If you'd agree to a counselor he might—"

Don used the tone he did whenever he was overwhelmed. "Don't put this on me."

Recovering, Charlie continued his descent.

"All right, I'll drop it," Alan said. "But I'm not giving up. I'm gonna' keep encouraging Charlie to see Volkov—someone, anyone, whoever can help. It hurts to watch you two going down the drain day after day. And not getting along with each other on top of it."

Entering the living room, Charlie discovered his brother and father sitting at opposite ends of the leather sofa. Don faced forward with his elbow on the armrest, fiddling with a baseball, and Alan also faced forward, his legs crossed, holding a pillow on his lap, as though they couldn't stand to be near one another.

Alan saw Charlie first. "Where's your robe?" he said, getting up. "Fever broke?" He curved a hand on his forehead. "You're boiling. Go back to bed."

"The koi," Charlie said. He'd been concerned with them on and off.

Don got up, stacked two throw pillows against the armrest. "You must be antsy, cooped up all day."

"I'll feed the fish." Alan claimed Charlie's empty water bottle. "Lay down. Use the sofa."

He requested ice water and his father said he already had ice in mind, exiting to the kitchen. Once on the sofa, Charlie had second thoughts about having left the quiet, restful solitude of a bedroom.

"Want a blanket?" Don said.

He declined then watched Don grab a coverlet from the chair and bring it to him. He accepted anyway, bunching it under his elbow.

Alan brought the water, gave Don a piercing sideways glance. "I would wait," he told him, almost in a whisper as if Charlie wouldn't be able to hear three feet away.

Although it hurt to swallow, Charlie drank quickly then asked Don where he was going.

Excusing himself, Alan said this would be a perfect time to feed the koi and catch up on a few phone calls—it was up to them to work this out. "Don't push him," he said as he left. "He's not well."

"I know, Dad," Don said.

A chill swelled beneath Charlie's skin and he shivered. "You're in a hurry."

Don plopped the ball into his palm. "Maybe this can wait."

"I have a feeling next time I wake up you'll be gone."

Don paced from one end of the sofa to the other, pitching the ball repeatedly from one fist to the other. "I'm going back up Mean Marmot Trail. It's the best way for me to get over what's going on, this PTSD or PTSS or whatever they want to call it. I plan to spend the night by the cabin, what's left of it, and maybe the cave too. I don't know, I'm playing it by ear."

His pacing aggravated Charlie's lightheadedness and he turned away, tried focusing on the metal latch of the china cabinet. It glistened like gold.

"Dad doesn't get it, he wasn't up there," Don said. "I figured you would."

Charlie held up the glass and water drops sprinkled onto his PJ's. "Refill, please." _Delay. Focus. _

Without comment, Don obliged and reappeared in seconds, resuming his pacing and pitching. "The Bureau's playing hardball on this. First a psych eval which they've conveniently arranged for me for next week, followed by sessions with a regular shrink. I have no idea how long all this will take." He shrugged as though working out a kink in his neck. "When I get back, I think…I think I can face all that stuff, do what they want. That part I'll do for them, this I have to do for myself."

"Your job," Charlie said. He drank, swallowed carefully.

"Yeah, it's tricky."

"Reylott? You talked with Megan?"

"I talked with someone," Don said. "All unsupported sightings. If anyone tails me, I'll pick up on it."

"He fooled us before."

"Because he tapped your house and beat us to the trail. If he's alive, and he isn't, he wouldn't have that advantage this time around."

Charlie pulled himself up, sat higher. It was sinking into his foggy brain—Don was unstoppable. "I want to go with you." _Please._

Don moaned, squeezed the baseball. "I knew you'd say that."

Charlie's temples pounded with the building tension. "A couple of days, I'll be—"

"Alone, Charlie. I have to go alone."

"I need it as much as you do." _Walk me through it. _

"I'm not arguing that. It's just something Don Eppes has to do solo, all right?"

"Reconsider."

"I'm leaving tomorrow morning. Got a new phone, car's packed." The baseball was motionless in his hand but Don paced faster, covering the whole room. "I have to prove to them I'm the same Agent Eppes they knew before Reylott."

"You're not," Charlie said. "We're both different."

"Yeah well, I don't like it. I liked the old Don and if I don't get the best part of that one back, I don't know what I'm gonna' do."

Charlie sat forward, touching the side of his head. "And me?" _Marooned in Charlieland._

"To help you, I gotta' help me first," Don said. "Try to understand." He came near, accepted the leftover ice water. "I'm tiring you out. Sorry."

The fever was unrelenting and Charlie fell back, the coverlet sliding to the floor. He'd run out of words and didn't have the energy to sustainan argument, to persuade Don to wait. "I do understand," he said, "and I don't."

_oooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOooooo_


	13. 13: Canon in D

**Chapter Thirteen: _Canon in D_**

---1---

A blanket had been placed over him. No idea when. While sick, Charlie missed a lot going on around him. It was disconcerting. He pushed the covers away. Finally, feeling somewhat better, in daylight.

In retrospect, he appraised the broken window—maybe he'd overreacted. Someone had busted it deliberately, but Reylott? How about a delinquent kid looking for easy cash or a person who mistook their house for someone else's? And the scratches on the lock...theycould've been there previously. All possible scenarios which, at this point, could not be brought to a conclusion. Yet, if he continued to turn himself inside-out, speculating each time something out of the ordinary occurred, he was going to find himself in a private, locked room considerably more frightening than his own bedroom was at present. Somehow, however, he didn't seem able to control those reactions or predict when they'd happen.

It'll be over someday—Dad promised. If Don can get it together, I can, too. Work at it.

Charlie sensed his fever had diminished, but it persisted. Food. He might be amenable to an iota of sustenance. After morning ablutions, he tested his temp around 102 and found Alan in his own bedroom, tidying up.

"Don gone?" Charlie said.

"Yup, bright and early." Alan dusted his wife's photo with a cloth. "He didn't want to wake you."

"No, I guess he wouldn't." He found comfort in the fact that Don had delayed his mission longer than he'd intended in order to talk with him. _That's respect._ But there'd been no apology for the other day, about being a scaredy-cat. Let it go. Megan's assessments of human nature are often right. Don's projecting onto me; try not to take it personally.

_And Don says he's got to act alone. _

Alan said, "You're looking less droopy."

"Droopy? Down a degree. I feel like I've been run over by a freight car."

"Don't rush yourself."

While his father fetched him a bite to eat, Charlie showered, imbibed his meds and crawled back into bed.

Alan brought the snack. "Your room's still off-limits, I see."

"Ignore it."

"You know, Donny had a bad reaction from early on." Alan gave Charlie the plate. "When we retrieved his car from the ski lodge. Wasn't but a few days since he'd been in the hospital. I think being back where it happened set him off. He got very quiet, with this heavy look on his face, didn't hear me when I asked what was wrong. To me, it was just a parking lot. To him, it was where it all started."

"I wanted to go with him today."

"I know. I'm worried he's up there by himself." Alan eyed a paper on the dresser and picked it up. "And you and your guns."

"I don't have a gun, Dad, Don has the gun."

"Why didn't you tell me before it came to this?"

"Say I was seeing things? Dr. Charles Edward Eppes doesn't see things that aren't there unless he intends to."

Downstairs, the doorbell rang. "Probably Mrs. Lenns," Alan said, going to answer it. "Cup of sugar, or eggs, or lemon…"

_Mrs. Lenns would mostly like a cup of Alan_, Charlie presumed, to console her in widowhood. Shortly, he'd finished his snack when Alan reappeared and asked permission for Jacobi to come up. He declined initially, realizing he was getting drowsy, then decided it would be fine to see her cheerful eyes. Alan told him he'd be out for groceries while she visited and Charlie kidded, asking, Do you trust me?

Alan said, of course, you're my son. Charlie was sure it was meant as a compliment. He and Don had been raised to be gentlemen.

While waiting—he could hear Jacobi chatting with his father at the bottom of the stairs—he put on his robe and tamed his hair as best he could, carefully arranging himself on the pillows for the maximum sympathy effect. Two days ago he hardly would've known she was there.

She tiptoed in like the scent of sweet peas from the garden and peeked in, set her flute case on the floor and asked how he was, shyly came in close to feel his face. "So warm," she said, shaking her head.

Charlie replied he thought he'd never improve.

"I won't stay long," she said. "Your dad says you're not over this yet. This your room? It's a little sparse."

"Used to be Don's but most of his possessions are long gone. More of a guestroom."

"I didn't get to meet him. He's the good-looking one I saw at the window, right?"

"Must've been me," Charlie said. "He's the homely brother."

"You're both nice-looking." She examined a photograph. "He's here now?"

"Out of town. Wanted to get out of the city."

She said that was a wise plan and asked him if his bedroom were being painted. He told her about the Tortuous Trinity, how he knew it was irrational and inane and idiotic but he couldn't get over it by wishing it away.

Jacobi had brought a boxful of homemade chocolates shaped like Halloween pumpkins. He accepted the box and ate one, thanking her—they were good—and she told a joke and talked about her lost cat, how he'd probably eloped with his feline girlfriend and was now vacationing in Tuscany to a Pavarotti aria.

The drug was clicking in and Charlie regretted he'd taken it. He preferred to keep visiting but her voice grew distant, his brain cloudier. Before he knew it, he'd given her the go ahead on a musical performance.

_You have a generous heart._

She'd taken out her flute, and, as she attached the joints, stated she was glad he'd enjoyed the serenade the other morning, how she'd always wanted to do that and could start a side business for Valentine's Day or birthdays. After a brief set-up, she dragged the desk chair out and introduced the piece.

_You have patience._

"I'll play pianissimo. When we're sick sometimes our ears are a stitch tender. You tell me if it's too loud for you, okay?"

_And a serene face._

Charlie nodded and turned to his side with head propped on a forearm to listen. She lifted the instrument to her mouth and lightly lit her fingertips on the key pads, as lightly as if it were a piece of straw, and curved her lips to blow into it. Pachelbel, Canon in D, began ploddingly then slowly increased tempo, sustaining a dignified but unsad mood for a two or three minutes. In another minute, Charlie had fallen under the spell of the dulcet notes and shut his eyes.

"Can I peek in your room?" she said. The Canon was over.

"Huh?"

"Curious. I won't touch anything," she said, "unless you…no, forget it. We don't know each other that well. It's impolite. Sorry."

Charlie opened his eyes lazily. "Go ahead," he said, and dozed off. It was wonderful to rest comfortably. _Should thank her…later. _

ooo------------ooo

He heard his mother as though she were there, felt the dipping of the mattress when she sat next to him: _Sweetie, wake up, _and her hand stroked his temple. _How're you feeling? _she asked

_I miss you, mom. Where have you been? _

_Charlie, feel better. _

_If you're here, I will be._

_You'll always be my little boy. _

_It hasn't been the same without you._

_I want you to be well._

_We need you, mom._

_Your father loves you._

_We want you both here._

_Can't be, Charlie._

_Your music—why a secret?_

_It wouldn't have changed anything._

_It might have changed me._

_You grew up beautifully._

_Dreams, mom, yours… _

_Time for me to go, Charlie._

_I'm not ready._

_We're never ready._

_I'm sick, you can't go._

_Remember Charlie, I love you._

_Then why go?_

_You'll be better soon…this I know._

_Stay, please._

_I can't. I have a concert to go to. For credit._

"Jacobi?" Charlie rolled to his back. The illusion of his mom's touch had been convincing and he looked her over twice. "What time is it?" he said, sweeping away the vivid loss; the haunting disappointment that his mother had never been there and would never be again.

"About one. Your dad's home."

He noticed her eyes were wet and she held a framed photo of him and Don with their mother. "Grand Canyon," he said. "A millennia ago."

"It's hard to be upbeat, isn't it?" She replaced the photo on the nightstand. "When anything changes, the hole they left feels bigger. Doesn't matter whether it's a season or a semester or something else in our lives."

"I won't say there won't be times it's tough, but…if you want to talk, night or day, you have my number."

"You know, I'm just a gal who came looking for her cat. The rest…I didn't expect." She was disassembling her flute and restoring it to its case. "Did you like the piece?"

"You're an enchantress with that thing." He slid his legs to the floor. "What did you expect?"

"A chubby old guy bald as a baby rat."

"Then you were right." They laughed and Charlie rephrased his question: "What didn't you expect?"

"To find a friend," she said and with her case in hand, approached and gave him a light kiss on the forehead, a gentle hug. "Take care, Charlie."

He had an idea, asked her to wait. In his room, he hauled out a plastic storage box filled with mineral samples from the upper shelf in the closet where it'd been collecting dust for years. Carefully, he selected a three centimeter piece of peacock ore, its surface as iridescent as ever, and rejoined her in the hallway.

"This," he said, "is from my old collection. Mom always favored the peacock ore. For the rainbow colors, she'd say. If you're feeling blue, take a look at it, someone knows what you're going through."

She scooped it out of his palm and held it up to the light. "It's amazing. I never would've imagined…I'll play Telemann next time. Very sprightly."

"I'd look forward to it."

"I'll walk myself out," she said. "You rest, you don't look well."

Charlie watched her go, adjusting the belt on his robe.

At the landing, she paused and blew him a kiss. "Score's almost even now."

He nodded absentmindedly, enamored, and reflected on her last remark, then dismissed it, supposed she was talking about repaying him for lunch. No bother. _Tired. _Like a slap in the face, exhaustion hit suddenly; exertion had worsened the fever. Back to bed, don't worry about it. Next time I see her, I'll ask what she meant.

As he fell asleep, an eight-note melody from the Canon repeated itself in his mind, growing off-key, irritating, while his thoughts capsized into confusion. Faces appeared and his mother and Don and Jacobi merged, displaced by a fourth, unique individual. A stranger…a cup of Alan…a fat old guy bald as a baby rat…very sprightly…Dr. Eppes, watch out for mean marmots, they'll steal the food right out of your hand, be careful…_Don, where have you been?_...

It's a secret.

_I knew you'd say that._

_oooooOOOOOooooo_


	14. 14: Crazy

**Chapter Fourteen: _Crazy_**

In the late afternoon, following the fitful nap, Charlie's temp was down despite the festival of odd dreams that had jumbled the contents of his brain. After shaking off the grogginess, he plucked up the laptop and concentrated on his armillary sundial sphere, changing his mind on the details for the tenth time. He'd been searching for design style options on the internet when his dad came in, dumped mail on the bed and seated himself in the chair Jacobi had used, shifting it nearer.

"Your visit went well?" he said.

"Sweet." Charlie offered a chocolate.

"Don't mind if I do," Alan said, harvesting a pumpkin.

He shuffled through his mail: catalogs, credit offers and brochures had accumulated before and during his illness and he separated them into two piles on either side of his legs: one for keepers, the other for discards.

His father ate the pumpkin in tiny bites. "You're liking her?"

"Dad," he said, his annoyance showing. His father's ceaseless quest for grandchildren was never a subtle matter. Sandwiched between two catalogs, a bright red envelope nabbed Charlie's interest and he slid it out, tossing the catalogs to the discard pile.

"Those bluish eyes are striking. She's talented, like your mother was."

"She's won you over," he said. "Change of heart?"

"Let's say I'm getting closer." Alan gleaned a second pumpkin.

Charlie grinned at his dad, pleased he was beginning to approve of Jacobi. "I'm already there," he said, and read the envelope. It was addressed simply to Charlie Eppes in neat long hand, but had no zip code, return address or meter stamp mark.

"Devil. Nice to see you smile."

"She could be the one." He turned the letter over, wondering how it got to him. The back was blank.

Alan's face lit up. "Don't Charlie. Those words aren't for saying too early."

"I suppose it is," he said. "Make up your…" Charlie had ripped open the red envelope and removed a greeting card decorated with a glittery Santa beneath a golden _Happy Holidays _arched across the front. It mesmerized him.

"And what about lonely Amita?" Alan said.

"Lonely Amita?" Charlie unfolded the card and froze in place, missing his father's next comment.

"You two have known each other a long time. It'd be awkward to…What is it?"

Inside, a pre-printed message read—_To_ _You and Your Family_—but it was unsigned. "Didn't Don say Reylott sent him Christmas cards?" Charlie said, his voice rising.

"He did." Alan leaned in to see it. "Unsigned with a North Pole stamp."

The card flew to the keeper pile and Charlie scooted away as if it were harboring a contagious pathogen, the computer tumbling from his lap. "Oh, shit."

Alan stood up, shoved the chair away with his foot. "Fingerprints. Don't touch it."

Charlie was mortified. "Why here? Why would it come here? I was right, he is out there. You all thought I was exaggerating, overreacting but, but…"

"Stop it, get a hold of yourself." Alan had the cell phone at his ear and a snug grip on Charlie's upper arm. "David. I'm calling David."

_A joke. It has to be a joke._ "How about Don? The police?"

"I called him just a few minutes ago. We're playing voice mail again. He can be so pigheaded sometimes. I have a mind to go up there and haul him….David? We got a problem."

It was happening again. Déjà vu in Charlieland. Complications. _Don, why aren't you here?_ He labored for braver breaths, failed and was soon in the throes of another panic attack. _I have to move, have to get out…hide._ He tore his arm away from his father's grasp and sprung from the bed, raced out into the hallway, turning towards the stairs. Alan trailed him, calling for him to stop and come back, the phone still at his ear.

_Kitchen. _Charlie sprinted in, foot slipping on the slick floor, and pulled an eight inch carving knife from its block. Spinning round, he collided into his father who tossed the cell phone to the counter as they hit. It skidded across the tiles, bouncing off the backsplash.

Charlie didn't expect what happened next: his father snatched both his wrists and clasped them solidly enough to hurt, insisting that he calm down and put the knife away. He squirmed, battling with Alan's surprising strength. "I'm getting out of here, I have to pack."

"Then what to you need that for?"

"Because I don't have a gun!"

"No, this isn't the way." Alan's elbows were rigid and he leaned aside, cautious of the blade. "Put it down," he ordered.

"Let me go, I have to hide."

"Charlie, please son, someone's going to get hurt—I could get hurt—that what you want? Put it down."

"I'm getting out of here." He took a step left but Alan held fast, the blade swinging outwards. "You need to pack, too. We both have to leave, save Don. Go someplace Reylott can't ever find us. He's out there, Dad, we're dead tonight if we don't get out. There's no time to waste."

"Look at yourself." Alan tried to meet Charlie's eyes. "Look at what you've come to. This is my wise son?"

Charlie checked out the window, behind them. "Oh God, it's starting all over again." He pulled at his wrists but was jerked back, his father's grip tightening round his forearms.

"Drop it, it's dangerous," Alan said, bracing his foot against the baseboard. "Charlie—now! Just open your fist and drop it."

He struggled, set on escaping. "Let me go."

"When you ease off and quit fighting me." He squeezed, shook Charlie's arms. "You have to calm down."

_We're wasting time, Don could be in trouble_.Over the phone, David's voice carried into the kitchen, asking what was going on. Realizing Alan would never let go as long as he resisted, Charlie relented and opened his fist, relinquishing the weapon. It fell to the counter and his father released his left arm, told him it was the best thing to do, the smart thing.

"Is it?" Charlie said, sweeping back his hair. He felt confused; apparently his father didn't trust him enough not to pick up the knife again and wouldn't release his right arm. With sweat trickling from his hairline, he yanked the locked wrist free and bolted out, going through the rear exit to his garage study. The door was unlocked and although there was sufficient sunshine, he nervously snuck a hand in to flick on the light before entering.

Behind him, his father was back on the phone, informing David he could handle his son, but to get here ASAP, call Don again for me, I have to go. "What're you doing?" Alan said. "Let's go back in. David's on his way."

At the green couch, Charlie knelt to search for the black bat. It had been jammed into the cushions and he forced his hands between them, plucking it out. "I need equipment."

"What equipment?" Alan said. "You aren't even over the flu yet. This is crazy."

"I know I'm crazy." He stuck the bat under his arm and rummaged through boxes and shelves, mining for supplies. _Cooler. Blankets. Lamps. Tent. Food. Water. Weapons. Lots of weapons._

"I didn't say that." Alan was on his heels, following round the area. "Why don't you call Don, see what he says?"

"Don…we'll pick him up." He jerked a canvas tarp from a tower of shelves and spray cans and bottles spilled down, clanging over each other. The noise jarred him and he jumped back, the bat slipping out from under his arm. When it smacked the cement, he jumped again, stepping away. "I'm the one who shot Rey," he said. "He's wants to kill me, inch by inch."

"No, you won't give in, do you hear me?"

"I hear you. I'm not afraid." _If you push Charlie, he'll push back. That's true, isn't it? _"But I want to go, we have to go."

Alan shook his head. "We have friends, they'll get us through this. We aren't alone."

_Not abandoned. Hard to believe. _Charlie turned, retreating from the mess, and continued his search for supplies. Approaching another shelf, he rolled a chalkboard out partway and a can clinked, vaulting sharply across the floor, banged by his unprotected foot.

His father was by the door. "Charlie, you can't do this to yourself, you need to rest."

He didn't pay attention. Pain had traveled up the nerve in his big toe, radiating into the top of the foot, and he bent low to grit his teeth and tend it, poised in front of the board. A splash of color captured his peripheral sight and he looked up. On the back, over the drawing of the armillary sphere, someone had marred his property, spray-painting in bold, red letters:

_CHARLES EPPES---> LIABLE---> P&S_

His breathing nose-dived and he plunged into a bout of hyperventilation._ Brain-raid. Not with Dad in the room...hands over mouth…nine-sixteenths, start at 986 go to 985.44, go to 984.88, go to 984.32…_

Alan hurried to his side, saw the writing. "Let's get out of here," he said, taking his son by the shoulders and urging him out the door.

_983.76…983.20… _Charlie cooperated, walking stiffly and counting as they returned to the house. _982.64. _He headed straight for his room and with a hand covering his mouth, dragged out his largest gym bag, deposited it on the bed and began to pack.

"You aren't going anywhere," Alan said, blocking the doorway. He was on the phone again.

At the tall chest of drawers, Charlie snatched socks and shorts out with a single hand. _971.44_

"Charlie, stop this…Don? Thank God you answered."

He stuffed the clothes into the bag, opened the closet for shirts and shoes. _970.32_

Alan addressed Don: "You have to talk to him."

_969.76_

"Charlie, your brother wants to talk to you."

He hesitated, _968.64, 968.08, _and accepted the phone, pacing. _Don's okay, calm the fuck down_. "966.4…4…4," he said aloud.

"Good, you're counting. That's a boy," Don said. "I'm coming back. Charlie, listen to Dad, will you do that for me? Don't go anywhere until I get home."

"963.60…It's starting over. We have to leave."

"The state you're in it's not a good idea. You think you can go out there in a panic and defend yourself? Nobody could. Promise me you'll stay there."

"He was in the house." Pausing at the window, he searched for movement below. "He wrote on my board."

"You know better than to jump to conclusions," Don said. "Quickest track up the wrong street."

"959.68" _How can you be so calm?_

"Charlie, promise me. You trust me, don't you?"

"958. Whole number."

"You're going to run out of numbers," Don said, the reception cutting out, then in. "What do you say?"

"Impossible." He uncovered his mouth, paced small circles about the room. "How long 'til you get here?"

"We're arranging air transport. I should be home in three or four hours."

"Before dark?" _957.44_

"I can't say. But David and Megan should be there anytime soon."

"No, not good enough." With his free hand, Charlie grabbed his wallet and tossed it into the bag, zipped it quickly. Picking it up, he hurried to the door. "Dad can drive, we'll just drive to…away…anywhere."

"Dad agrees with me, he understands you both should stay put."

Alan's arms were spread across the doorway. "I said you're not going anywhere, not like this."

Charlie lowered the phone, left Don hanging on the line. "Dad, please, let me through. We still have to pack your things and…"

Though shouting, Don's warnings went unheeded: "Charlie, no! You can't go, listen to me, I know what I'm doing. Stay where you are."

"Let me by!" Charlie tried to break through and Alan shifted to the right, planted a palm on his son's chest. The gym bag bumped against their knees and Charlie withdrew a step, disturbed by the weary, frustrated look on his father's face. He moved towards the bed, his brain snapping to attention, and dropped the bag, rethinking his actions, a knot in his stomach. He looked down at himself: he was in pajamas, shoeless, very thirsty, and ill. He'd distressed his father enough for today; there'd be no more wrestling matches on his account. With the phone at his ear, he resumed counting. _956.88._ "I'm here," he said. "You okay?"

It seemed to take Don a second to figure out his brother was back on the phone before he answered. "I'm okay," he said. "And I want you and Dad to stay okay. Trust me. You'll sit tight, right?"

"It's hard to wait, Don, it's how it was in the cave. It'll be dark soon."

"I know, I know, but you're not there, you're not alone. We've got experts on the way, lots of help. Please Charlie, pay attention to Dad. Do what he says. Wait there."

Charlie collapsed on the bed pillows, hot and dizzy. "Hurry," he said. "Hurry."

Alan came away from the door and took the phone, sat on the bed. Charlie had closed his eyes, concentrating on balancing out his breaths. His head pounded as fiercely as his heart and any physical strength he'd previously mustered with the flood of adrenaline had ebbed, leaving him trembling and weak.

"Dad?" Don said.

"Yeah, it's me," he said, feeling Charlie's forehead first, then laying a hand on his chest. "He's quiet, for now."

_oooooOOOOOooooo_


	15. 15: Teddy Bear

**Chapter Fifteen: _Teddy Bear_**

---1---

With his eyes kept closed, Charlie gradually evened-out the rhythm of his breaths. His father remained by him, soothed his forehead and face with a handkerchief, speaking softly. He asked for a drink of water and Alan hesitated, saying he didn't want to leave him alone.

"It's all right," Charlie said, opening his eyes. "I promise, I'm not going anywhere."

Alan handed him the kerchief. "I'll get it from the bathroom faucet."

Charlie gave a little nod and shut his eyes again, gratefully anticipating the drink. "Dad?" he said, before Alan could get into the hall. "It's quiet, isn't it?"

"Yes Charlie, very…well, except for Mrs. Lenns' Lovebirds."

"The doors are locked?"

"And the windows, and the floors," Alan said, kidding a mite. "Don't worry about a thing, you're doing well now."

_Locks keep people out, keep them in. _He turned to a side, dragged the kerchief over his neck and drew up his knees, arms crossed.

_This has got to stop. _

-oo--oo--oo--oo--oo-

That evening, David had been attending a fund-raiser and Megan visiting a friend when they were summoned to the Eppes home. Concerned, they both arrived within the hour with extra people to scour the surrounding area.

David saved the red letter in a plastic bag, said he'd get it to the lab first thing. By then, Charlie had migrated to his father's room and appropriated the bed. He felt queasy, as if the moth in his belly were back in business, but he reasoned it had little to do with the virus. David as usual was confident, offered apologies in advance if it turned out he was wrong about Reylott, because this didn't quite fit his MO. The letter had come to Charlie's, not Don's, and lacked the novelty of the make-believe North Pole mark. Someone had personally and covertly slipped it into the mailbox. It seemed a copy-cat was afoot.

Charlie reclined against the headboard, picked up his mother's photo from the bedside and gave her a kiss, respectfully setting it down. He attempted to sleep but the pernicious fever had a mind of its own, rising again with nightfall, near the high level of the previous evening. A slow burner, his father called it. His body still ached and the headache seemed to be pressing in on his skull from the outside, not from within.

Downstairs, the investigation proceeded. He felt safer with others in the house yet had no desire to hang around below, get in the way. At his request, Alan brought the black bat to him, ardently suggesting that Charlie call their family physician on Monday to get something for his nerves, there was no use suffering endlessly.

Charlie agreed; he no longer needed any heavy-duty convincing. One thing at a time, perhaps return to Volkov. His father encouraged him, said he should direct his talents and skills to the task of finding the suspect once he'd recovered from the flu—and the fear.

_Dad doesn't see how tough that's going to be. _

Taking a break to see how he was, Megan visited upstairs, advising him that he was beyond the original trauma, building bad experience upon bad, that every anxiety attack was fueled by the ones before it. Charlie, she told him, no one can really help you but you…what Don has been planning—the visit to the forest to spend the night, although he's had to postpone it—may not be the Bureau's idea of standard or effective treatment, but it's Don's way to manage this, to rev himself up for what comes next. You can't keep backing down, she said, it weakens you every time. Do you see what I'm getting at?

Charlie assured her he knew all this, it's just that with the new developments he'd seemed to react spontaneously to fright. He slept after she left, succumbing to meds and stress. When he awoke, Don was sitting near him in the plaid wingback at the corner, scribbling in a notebook with their father's etched silver pen.

Don blinked at him, brows arched. "Running out of rooms, Charlie," he said. "Something wrong with mine?"

"The letter was in there. When'd you get back?"

"About…" Don checked his watch. "Half hour or so."

"You should've woke me," he said, extending his legs beneath the covers.

"It's best you kick back, let us do the work." He leaned forward. "You sure you're all right?"

Charlie affirmed. "How's Dad? I didn't mean to make it worse by flaking out on him."

"He's a trooper. When you gonna' get better?"

"At this point, I'm thinking never. I can't believe he was here."

"We don't know it was Reylott," Don said. "Could be someone he knew. A revenge motive. Or a huge crappy joke by someone who doesn't like you, a student. All we know is someone blames you for something."

Charlie said, "The P&S—stands for pain and suffering, doesn't it?"

"That'd be my guess. Or pizza and sodas." Don flipped a page in his notebook. "What do you know about this Jacobi Genini?"

_Uh-oh. _"You have to be kidding."

"No stone unturned. Dad says she was here alone with you. She with you all the time?"

"She played for me, I fell asleep."

Don asked how long he was zonked out.

"Forty or fifty minutes, approximately."

"And when you woke up?" he said, writing.

Charlie recalled the dream of his mother, its realness. "Jacobi was sitting on the bed, left here within ten minutes. You don't seriously think…"

"I might," Don said. "But we can't find her. We want to know if she saw anything."

"Her number's in my jeans. They're the ones hanging on the footboard."

"We'll check it out. Do what you've been doing—rest." Getting up, he seemed to notice something unusual and set his notebook on the side table. At the bed, he raised Charlie's arm, supporting the elbow, and turned it gently. "What's this—finger marks?"

"Ow," he said, not knowing what caused the pain, and lifted his head to investigate. "Oh great." On the inside wrist, large red fingerprints were clearly visible, spotting green to blue. "Dad'll be upset about this."

Don asked to see the other arm and lightly folded the blankets down. The second wrist was also bruised. "This when Dad tried to stop you?"

"He did stop me," Charlie said, examining the injuries. "I was being crazy with the knife. He told you?"

"Briefly. Don't worry, he'll know you won't blame him."

"Just the same, do me a favor, don't mention them to him, will you?"

"You got it," Don said, getting his notebook. "Lips are sealed." He started to leave. "I should see what's going downstairs."

"Did you make it to the cabin?"

"Unfortunately, no." He pointed to the bat, tucked in beside Charlie, the handle peeking out. "I remember when you used to sleep with a teddy bear."

Charlie frowned, felt Don was making fun of him"Not everyone can be as bulletproof as you."

"Hold on, I don't want to argue, especially now."

"Well then quit projecting on me."

"Projecting on you?" Don said. "Shrink tell you that?"

"Doesn't matter who. If you can't stand to see me you can go back to the woods."

"Charlie," he said, apparently wounded. "You're my brother."

"I am. And more than that." _I'm an individual, apart from you, too._

"And what is it I'm supposed to be projecting?"

"My problems, they remind you of your shortcomings, when you lost it with Reylott and at work the other day."

"You talked to Megan, didn't you?" Don stepped towards the door then quickly back to the bed. "Got a _Megananalysis_? I should've known."

"I can talk to anyone I want," Charlie said. "I work with her, too."

"Oh yeah? Well…" A female voice summoned him from the hallway and Don paused, whispering to her on the other side of the door. "I gotta' go."

Charlie grunted, dragging himself out of bed as he disappeared. Not caring to leave the room and possibly run into strangers, he went to his father's closet and borrowed a plain white long-sleeved shirt, put it on and settled back, kicking the covers aside until he could cool off. He ran his fingertips gingerly over the bruises, knew they would be getting uglier before they improved. Aligning a cuff, he began to button it, listening to Don's steps fade away on the wooden hallway floors.

_I'm glad you came back. _

---2---

By ten PM, the neighbors had taken their snoopy noses back to their TV sets and the Eppes men, along with a lookout man named Sam in a car on the street, were the only ones remaining on the premises. For now, they would cautiously watch, expecting the perpetrator to return since they had reason to believe the broken window was connected to the same person or persons who'd been in the garage. Charlie tried calling Jacobi, got voice mail and became concerned when she didn't call back. Suppose she'd run into the perpetrator? Lab results for the fingerprints on the letter, etc., would take a few days to process. He hoped she was all right.

Discouraged, Charlie reluctantly returned to his own room, mulling over what Megan had said to him. He would eventually have to contend with the Tortuous Trinity despite the fact that he wasn't feeling any stronger. The memory of his anxiety attacks haunted him, the trouble they'd caused for Dad and Don and how they'd been forced to witness the outward manifestation of his disruptive nightmares. If he didn't start soon the latest developments would definitely drive him into a hole in the ground for the rest of his life. The time was ripe, while free of panic, to confront his fears. _I'm tired of being bullied._

_If this asinine fever would break, then I'd be up to the battle._ He prepared the room, leaving the window wide for a fresh breeze which might encourage the fever to wane. On his desk, he found their father's silver pen. Don had apparently been in the room earlier and forgotten it. Charlie picked it up, put it in the drawer for safe keeping, regretting that he'd never gotten the chance to speak with him again because Don had been so busy. Although officially on leave, Don's intimate involvement with the case made him both victim and unofficial agent in the house and, according to Alan, he'd personally conducted a thorough inspection. When their father retired for the night, Don was downstairs, watching TV until after midnight. Charlie could hear the commercials blaring.

Crossing his fingers, he left the door ajar for the hall light—he couldn't persuade himself to sleep in total darkness—and got into bed with the bat next to him. Sometime in the night, light taps sounded on the roof. Mischievous cats, he reasoned, he'd heard them before, and dozed, heard a clicking noise at one point, fell back to sleep.

"You Charlie Eppes?" someone asked from the darkness, rather hoarse.

He believed he was dreaming, then writhed, beating a fist against the muscular chest that loomed above him, the body straddling his middle. He'd awakened to a crushing weight, felt as though he'd suffocate, realized he couldn't call for help. Slung over his mouth, a slick hand half-trapped the warm exhalations from his nose and pressed his lips against teeth and gums. The fingers smelled foul, like rotten meat, and a bony knee ground into his left armpit. At his throat, a hard object poked his flesh and he discerned the silhouette of a head in dim light from the window. With each heartbeat, he thought his chest would implode, certain he'd be shot.

The intruder shifted his weight. "You Charlie?"

He nodded, pressed his head hard back into the pillow. _I'm dead this time._

"You'll answer my questions, and I won't kill you, get it?"

Mutely, Charlie affirmed, attempting a nod. _The bat—under the covers._

"No screaming when my hand comes off."

Another silent affirmation. _Reach for it._

"Where's Katherine?" the intruder said. "She was here, right?" He removed his hand.

"Who are you?" Charlie said, and the foul hand re-squeezed over his mouth. _Can't get to it._

"Shhhh. Too loud. Where's Katherine? I need to talk to her, the bitch."

"I, I don't know a Katherine." Charlie's breaths were loud as well, but he couldn't stifle them.

"She's been hanging around here, huh? Jacobi, where is she?"

"Who are you?" he said, trying to make out the man's face.

"She took something from me." He wrenched Charlie's shirt, jerked his head off the pillow. "Do you know where she is?"

"I swear, she never called back. Don't—"

The intruder slapped him. "Where?"

His head dropped back. "Ouch," he said. "I don't know. I've n-never been to her house."

He was hit again, a backhand rougher than the first. "You got family in the house, don't you? Maybe they know."

"No, no family." Charlie craned his head sideways, expecting a hit, and got one.

"Don't lie to me, what'd she tell you?"

"I swear to you, I don't know—" His sentence was cut off, ended with another firm slap.

"Tell me," he said, and buried his fingers into Charlie's curls, tugging.

Charlie cried out. "Who are you?"

He twisted the hair, tugged again. "Your dad will tell."

"Leave him alone he d-doesn't—"

A knock came from the door and a voice called out: "Charlie? You okay?"

Charlie tried to reply but the hand clasped down on his lips. The intruder shook his head in threat, crammed the object deeper into his throat.

_Go away, he has a gun…_

Don knocked forcefully. "Hello? Answer me, you all right?"

_He'll hurt you, run…_

"Charlie! Open the door."

_My arm is free_, _use it—now, _and he reached across, seized the man's right arm and pushed it free of his throat, then heaved and thrust his knees upwards, knocking the intruder to the mattress. With a shout, Charlie warned Don of the gun and the intruder yielded, bounded off and stumbled to the floor.

As the man sprung up, Don rushed in shoulder first, busting the door open with a crack, his sidearm prepped, balanced in both hands. Unfazed, the fleeing intruder threw himself forward, crashed into Don and abruptly swung his own weapon, back-whacking Don across the face. Don hung on to his sidearm but reeled, spinning to the left and down onto the lamp which toppled over, splitting the base in two.

Charlie in the meantime had briefly become entangled in the sheets and was freeing himself, lunging out of bed and into the hallway, bumping shoulders with his father. He hesitated a second, never stopping, and pursued the intruder who'd darted for the stairs.

On the ground floor, the back door was ajar and Charlie ran out, saw the man lose his footing and tumble a few feet out from the threshold, rise and dash into the garden. He pursued him, shouting for help, hoping Sam the lookout would finally buy a clue and come round from his car out front. The intruder glanced behind him, beelined into the koi pond and executed an ungraceful splash. He was climbing out when Charlie overtook and tackled him into the sweet pea beds. The man whirled round, planted a right cross on his jaw, springing up. Charlie stretched forward, nailed his ankle and brought him down. They wrestled, mucked in freshly watered soil.

_Give up!_ Charlie grunted with the effort, on his back, shoving and grabbing at the same time, when he realized his enigmatic opponent was being dragged off by Sam and a second officer and harshly slammed to his stomach, prepared for handcuffing. The man screamed to be let go, protesting that he was not the one they wanted.

Alan seemed to appear from nowhere, kneeling next to his son. "My God, what do you think you're doing?"

Charlie lay immobile with only his chest heaving, coughing in choked spurts. He swiped mud from an eye and rolled to get up. "Don," he said, taking his father's hand. "Where?"

"He's over there." Alan motioned towards the house. "Can you get up?"

"I'm working on it," he said, and folded in his legs.

"You're bleeding."

"What?" Charlie sat up, felt his side, suddenly aware of the wetness seeping through his PJ's. He scanned the ground—a garden lamp had been crushed under him, slicing into his right flank near the hip.

His father helped him up and they retraced the path to the house. Don sat beneath the porch light on the lowest flagstone deck-step, bleeding over half his face and down his chin, holding his shirttails to the wound. Charlie was shocked to see other than his own blood—especially his brother's—and knelt beside him, one hand on Don's arm and the other to his own side.

Alan had stepped into the house, came running out with towels. "Are you dizzy?" he asked Don, gingerly touching one to his cheekbone.

"A little." Don held the towel for himself. "Charlie, you nuts? You could've been killed."

He struggled to reclaim his breath, heard the intruder blurting out a string of objections from the other end of the garden. Tasting blood, he felt with his tongue, found a cut on the inside of his mouth. "Got the son-of-a-bitch," he said, lowering himself gently to the flagstone.

Alan crouched near, pressed a towel to the injured hip. "And I'm about to have a heart attack. Don's right, you could've been killed."

Charlie moaned; the pain was beginning to hit him."He made me mad, Dad. He just made me mad."

_-oo--oo--oo--oo--oo--oo--_


	16. 16A: Aftermath

**Chapter Sixteen (A): _Aftermath_**

As an emergency crew drove up, Charlie peeked through the front window and watched a petite woman in a frilly pink robe approach the house. With all the commotion going on next door, Mrs. Lenns apparently hadn't been able to contain herself and had rushed over, probably worried about Alan, eager to console him. Unfortunately for her, the police had cordoned off the area and wouldn't permit her to come nearer than fifty feet while the Eppes home was once again combed for suspicious tracings.

On his side, Charlie had sustained a ragged stab wound which bled steadily, requiring frequent pressure. Both he and Don boarded an ambulance and were transported to a hospital where they were separated. Don required treatment for a cut made not by a real gun but the intruder's weapon of choice, recovered from the koi pond: A rusty BB gun probably decades old, which didn't work.

Alan arrived by car and caught up with his younger son in a treatment room. On an examining table, Charlie tended his face, soothing reddened cheeks and chin with an ice pack, and retold the event to authorities, how he'd awakened with a man perched on top of him and nearly passed out from terror. The man asked for Katherine, then Jacobi, but it was unclear if there were one or two women he'd sought. He'd evidently sneaked into the house through the door with the broken window which had been patched with cardboard, creeping into Charlie's room and locking the door behind him. He'd turned off the hall light but Don had flicked it back on when he'd come up to investigate the noise.

The attending doctor had been peeking at Charlie's injury and now shooed the police, saying he needed to get to work; they could question the patient later. While he busied himself at a computer, a nurse with a stony topknot instructed Charlie to change out of his muddied clothes and handed him a gown.

He was concerned; his bruised arms would be unveiled before his father. Stalling, he thought about asking him to leave when Alan began to complain to the doctor rather excitedly, telling him Charlie had been sick with flu and fever the last few nights and still was. Then, as Charlie watched, his father suddenly went gray and walked out of the room without saying a word.

"Dad?" he called after him and the nurse ordered him to hurry, get out of his dirty clothes.

Charlie complied, undressing and getting into the flimsy gown whereupon she had him lay on his side, titled back, upper leg straight, and deftly threw a sheet over his lower half. He heard the pop of exam gloves being slipped on and lifted his arm to keep it out of the way, bicep under his chin. Then, with his hip exposed and draped, they peeled away the rest of the temporary dressing and prepared to irrigate the wound, first cleansing the skin around it.

"Will someone check on my father?" Charlie said, scooting slightly—he wasn't looking forward to this; it was already beginning to hurt. "He seemed a little—"

The nurse snapped, told him not to move.

_We're in a hospital_, he assured himself, _Dad isn't having a heart attack. Someone would see it. _His concern turned to Don. "Where's my brother?"

"No talking, no fidgeting," the nurse said. "You're making a mountain out of a molehill."

_Having a bad day?_ Charlie thought, _Try my molehill._ He laid his head back down and winced. Not only did the stab wound feel raw but it stung to press his face into the not-so-very-soft pillow. From behind him, a cold, constant and stinging flow of saline streamed over the wound, washing out blood and soil, some of it missing the catch-container and spilling over his abdomen onto the table, soaked beneath him, damp and uncomfortable.

"Where's my brother?" he dared ask again. No one answered and he lifted his head. "Where's my brother is he all right?"

"I'm warning you, be still," the nurse said, a glint of spit shooting out. "You're not the only patient we have tonight."

_Aren't they in for a treat._ "Where's my brother? His name is Don Eppes."

"Eppes?" the nurse finally replied, tearing a pack of gauze. "He's probably waiting. He had a minor laceration, no sutures."

_Correct, same last name as mine_. He let out a long sigh and was about to ask what they were going to do to him when Don entered, peeking in first.

"Where's Dad?" Charlie said. "He took off so fast."

His face sported a short row of butterfly bandages and he'd changed out of his bloodied shirt, carried a paper bag. "He's fine."

"Damn it!" Charlie yelled, and raised his arm to see the wound, twisting forward. "Do you have to do that?" They were attempting to disinfect the wound more thoroughly and it felt to him as though they were excavating it with a fork.

The doctor continued to excavate, told him he was almost finished but had found seeds of broken glass and a nasty infection is the last thing you want, right?

_No, the last thing I want is another excruciating…_

He jerked forward, expelling a biting curse as the next invasion ensued. The nurse, rooted in front of him, pulled the sheet back up and scolded him to be still or she'd have him held still.

_I have no doubt. _He got the message: The faster the medicos completed the task, the faster he could get away from the Topknot of Kindness and return to the Tortuous Trinity. "Dad didn't look so good," he told Don. "He was pale."

"He's in the waiting area. We'll talk about it later." Don was observing the procedure and Charlie became worried when his brows furrowed into a frown.

Don said, "Uh, I wouldn't look, bro."

He did—just as the doctor raised a hypodermic needle into the air and said he'd need to anesthetize the wound before suturing. As the nurse applied a topical numbing ointment, Charlie glued his eyes shut to steel himself, clutching the edge of the table, relieved to sense only a minor pin prick over the throbbing. Then they waited a moment.

In that interval, Don informed Charlie that David had been surprised to be summoned back to the Eppes home so soon after the first incident and was presently waiting for him downstairs. As soon as Don was done, they planned to drive to the police department to follow-up on the interrogation of the intruder.

As Don spoke, Charlie was relieved to feel the throbbing subside and the doctor rolled his stool in closer, proceeded to repair the damage.

"How you doing?" Don said. He'd retreated to the wall, claimed a padded chair. "I think it's all downhill from here. Dad brought us clothes."

"He thought of that?"

"He did—had 'em in the car," he said, and filled Charlie in on what they'd learned about the intruder's breaking and entering methods. They didn't know much about him; thus far, the man refused to talk, giving away neither name nor intention.

After several stitches, the doctor was done and departed without good-bye or good riddance, leaving the Topknot to finish dressing the wound and assign hasty instructions on its care.

Don helped his brother sit up, allowed him to get dressed. Thankfully, by luck, their father had thrown a long-sleeved shirt into the bag and Charlie made sure he put it on over his T-shirt. This would be the absolutely worst night for his father to find out about the burgeoning bruises on his arms.

Out in the hallway, they headed to the elevator and Don explained that their father really was fine, but had confided to him that he'd been staring at Charlie on the examination table and felt overwhelmed by the circumstances he'd found himself in, including the sight of blood on those he loved, and told himself his younger son was in good hands, he'd be patched up in no time, then had to take a break.

"He's feels bad about it," Don said.

Charlie massaged his forehead, clipping a support post with his elbow when they got onto the elevator. "Poor Pop."

"That fever won't go, will it?"

"No," he said. The elevator doors shut. "They took my temp. It's stuck between 101, 102."

Don ran his fingers through his hair. The lights cast a ghoulish glare, made him look ill. "Promise me you'll get some sleep tonight."

"Easy for you to say."

"Charlie," Don said. "I'll do whatever I can to get to the bottom of this."

"I…." He rethought what he was about to say; it'd been a harrowing night and he was thankful his brother was living and breathing and tucking his shirt in right next to him. "How's your face?"

He tapped his temple. "Smarts."

"Hurt anywhere else?"

"Only my pride," Don said. "How's your jaw? It's beet red."

Charlie recalled the sting of slaps and glanced up, recoiling from the bad light. Somewhere in the night, the anger that had helped him maintain his composure had forsaken him completely. _Why us? Why me? _Covering his face, he slumped into the corner, and broke down. It overtook him like a wave.

Don put a hand on his back. "Hey what's going on?"

"There's no good place to rest anymore," he said, and straightened up, embarrassed, yet couldn't stop crying. The elevator doors retracted and a family of five marched in without waiting for them to exit. Don took over, grabbed Charlie's arm and escorted him from the rear of the elevator out onto the floor. Crossing the lobby, they ended up in a small alcove where service flyers and brochures were posted. Few people were about to take any interest but the darkness outside, sterile atmosphere and blighted scent of hospital depressed Charlie all the more.

"I'm sorry," Charlie said, averting his eyes, back against the wall. "I'll get my act together." He sucked back a breath, dabbed his tears and nose with his sleeves. "I don't want Dad to see me like this again. He can't take it."

Don squeezed his shoulder. "There'll be extra help at the house, additional lookouts. You'll be safe this time around."

"There's no such thing as safe."

"In my ballpark there is," Don said. "It's been a long twenty-four hours, try not to think about it too much." He hooked a hand gently onto Charlie's neck. "You're shook up, we all need sleep. Think relaxed, okay?"

Charlie nodded over and over, promising himself his knees wouldn't give out.

"Don't dwell on it, you can't let your…" A woman passed, pushing a man in a wheelchair, and Don paused until they'd gone by. "Things will look better in the morning." He glanced around, holding him by the shoulders. "Ready?"

Bracing himself, Charlie stepped from the alcove and headed towards the waiting room. "I'm going," he said, sniffling. "I'm going."

Don turned him around. "It's this way, buddy"

--o--o--o--o--o--o--o--o--o--

Charlie found his father nodding off next to a magazine rack, a sweater thrown over his chest and arms. He seemed ten years older. David, who was ambling back and forth on the phone, waved at them as they entered and hung up.

"Dad?" Charlie sat next to him, Don on the other side. "We're done, it's time to go."

Alan's eyes popped open; he was startled.

"It's okay, Dad, just us," Don said.

He sat up, scrunched the sweater. "Finished?"

"Seven stitches." Charlie pictured the excavation, the hurried staff. "No problem. The bleeding slowed up."

"Seven?" Alan said. "I thought it'd be a dozen."

Charlie blinked hard, cleared a clinging drop from an eyelash. "Guess I was fortunate."

"He'll have a scar and a story to go with it," Don said, motioning to David. "Let's get out of here. I can think of a million other places I'd rather be about now."

Before leaving the hospital, Don asked Charlie and Alan if they preferred to go to a hotel for the remainder of the night, maybe even a couple of days. They considered it and decided a strange place would be more taxing than returning home and that the probability of another unpleasant visitor dropping by was slim.

Alan was physically spent so David drove. Once there, Don consulted with Megan before she left the premises for the night. Although he had a headache from the blow he'd received, he insisted he was no longer dizzy and that his vision was fine. With that, he and David left together for the police station, leaving behind three look-outs to monitor the house including one near the front door in place of Sam whom Don insisted be removed from the case for chatting on a cell phone with his girlfriend while on duty.

Too exhausted to talk, Charlie and Alan settled in, cloistered together downstairs: Charlie on the sofa, Alan in a chair with his feet up, too wound up to go to their own beds. The last hours until Monday morning sunrise were spent tossing and turning, peaceful slumber still elusive. But dawn came, arriving with a good sign, a welcome sigh: Charlie felt cool. After five days, the fever had broken. Perhaps today he'd begin to feel his better self. Mercifully, the crying jag from the night before had shaved off a sliver of the shock he'd felt in the aftermath of the assault…or was it the promising morning light which had him breathing a little easier?

On the sofa, he shifted from side to back and pain skipped through to the front. His injury was minor, still aggravating. The chair where his father had been trying to rest was empty. Alan had retreated to his own room in the wee hours, bent and stiff from the rigid position he'd lain in. He'd asked Charlie if he'd be okay alone and Charlie had remembered the lookouts, accepted that they were enough. Their odds had improved.

_Larry. _He hadn't had a chance to call him and picked up his phone. The physicist was just up, getting ready for work. Charlie warned him not to panic if he heard anything on the news or through the grapevine about the break-in, that everyone was all right. Larry was incredulous, said he'd be over immediately. Charlie begged off, told him to please come in the afternoon, that he wasn't up to visitors, wanted to take an indefinite nap. Larry obliged, said he'd call him at noon, see how he was doing.

After hanging up, he thought about Jacobi—hadn't she been scarce lately. She had something to do with all of this. She'd seemed innocent enough, but the intruder gave her away by mentioning her name. She had secrets. He remembered her at his bedside when he'd had the mom dream, the way she'd nonchalantly caressed her fingers over his as she spoke. Perfect. Exquisitely perfect. I fell for the tears, the cat, the Canon in D. And the chocolate pumpkins, confiscated by police, which would nevermore be eaten.

Don called, checking in on them. He said the intruder had refused to talk to the police initially, but had begun to spill the garbanzos as the interrogators wore him out. I'll call back, he said, David's dropping me off at home in a couple of hours so I can clean up, get some sleep.

Charlie got up, stretched carefully. His muscles were sore; he wasn't used to tussling with bad guys, and peered outdoors, scrutinizing the area. One of the lookout cars was parked across the street and he could hear the piercing calls of Mrs. Lenns' Lovebirds. Famished, he had a powerful craving for the sweetest cereal in their pantry and headed to the kitchen, ate a bowl then went upstairs to Don's bed—because just looking at his own was enough to make him jumpier—and tossed and turned for an hour or two.

It wasn't working; his whole sleep cycle had been disrupted and there was too much on his mind. He was anxious to hear what Don had to tell him about the intruder, to find out if this man was the same one who'd brought mischief upon the house, or if Jacobi had been the culprit, or both. If any portion of the mystery could be solved today, then _Thank God, _it would be over, and he wouldn't have to be afraid any longer on Jacobi's account or the intruder's. Other matters, like Reylott sightings, he'd still have to contend with.

Unintentionally, he wandered into a memory, knew it intimately but pushed away the guilt. Even if they discovered that last night's intruder was responsible for everything, it wouldn't change the fact that Charlie Eppes had killed Reylott, and the nightmares would probably continue, perhaps get worse. But he couldn't imagine it worse, didn't want to.

To escape the worry, he decided to organize overdue e-mail correspondence and pay past due bills. Taking a quick scan of the area first, he sneaked into his study to the couch, feeling drained as though more than a few minutes of work would wear him out, but he pressed on anyway. After accessing his bank accounts and reading them over, he nearly fainted, taking second and third looks at the totals. They were thousands short.

The phone rang and he answered it, befuddled, thinking there must be some mistake; it's someone else's account, a computer glitch.

Don was on the line from his apartment, speaking fitfully. "It's trashed," he said. "I got home awhile ago and somebody's ransacked it."

"What?"

"Charlie, you listening?" he said. "The police are here. I came to wash up and rest and found my place burglarized."

He absorbed merely a fraction of the tale as Don described the vandalism: furniture slashed, detergents scattered, fridge and cupboards wide open, food and liquids dumped to the floor, dishes smashed on the carpet to minimize noise, stains everywhere, bedroom ripped by knife, clothing covered with various caustic liquids and in addition, computer, camera, jewelry and other valuables stolen.

"I'll be over as soon as I can," he said. "I got a lot to tell you. Charlie, you there?"

"Don, put a hold on your funds." He swallowed the lump lodged in his neck. "I think they might've stolen more than your camera."

--o--o--o--o--o--o--o--o--o--


	17. 16B: Dead Giveaway

**Chapter Sixteen (B): _Dead Giveaway_**

---1---

Charlie promptly closed his accounts and bank authorities put a trace on the transactions, engaging an investigation into all the Eppes' business affairs. Once again, life came to a roaring halt and over lunch, he and his father nervously anticipated Don's arrival and what he had to tell them. Charlie was hungry and tried to enjoy the meal but was stubbornly hounded by a well-known beast who raised its gummy tentacles and forced him to temper his appetite.

"Talk to me, Charlie," Alan said. "What's in your head?"

"Reylott."

"You're thinking he's behind all this?"

_It's a feeling, can't fool me._ _Feelings are often misleading, inaccurate. Logic leads, that's what I'm good at, what I do, what I've done almost everyday of my life. _"I'm thinking he's not," he said. "This is developing in a different direction, I can't be drawing conclusions without hearing Don out first."

"That's the spirit." Alan served a spoonful of rice onto his plate. "I've been going over last night, what you did. It was impulsive, but I'm proud of you."

"I assumed he had a lethal weapon," Charlie said. "Don was in harm's way."

"So were you."

"Yeah I was, wasn't I?" His courage pleased him and he polished off a bread roll. "Jacobi's responsible for this. She had access to our documents the whole time you were out. I was gullible."

"You couldn't have known otherwise." The color had returned to his father's face. "What I want to know is who she is. Sad to think she got no heart."

"I just hope we'll be able to get our money back."

Alan said, "I think your anxiety's infected me, too."

"Welcome to the club," he said, reaching across the table for a second roll. He'd been sitting on his shirttails and when he extended his arm the sleeve rode up—enough so the hint of an expanding spot was exposed at the cuff.

His father's sharp eye caught it, asked if it were a stain of some sort.

Charlie put down the roll. "It's nothing."

"You're a bad liar. What is it?"

"It's nothing, Dad," he said. "A smudge."

Alan came to his side. Standing over him, he asked Charlie to pull up his sleeve.

"This is ridiculous." He smoothed down the cuff. "It's nothing."

"You said that already. Now let me see your nothing." He tugged at the sleeve to get Charlie to bring up his forearm. "Up."

Charlie winced; the bruises were sensitive.

"You're in pain?" Alan said. "Let me see."

He gazed up at him; Dad wasn't going to give up and Charlie sure as heck wasn't going to go running off on him, give him more trouble. He was going face it. It'd be harder to run off now anyway with stitches, tender to the touch. But it was unavoidable; he wouldn't be able to spare his father's feelings like he had before.

Still in his chair, Charlie unbuttoned the left cuff, folded it back twice, twisting the wrist so his father could see what he'd done.

Alan gasped, almost inaudibly.

"They'll heal fine, Dad. No lasting scars."

"I know that's true but it feels like…" He cradled Charlie's wrist. "And the other one?"

He lifted his right arm then tucked it behind the chair. "It's nothing."

"Another nothing like this one?" he said. "You've been hiding this. Let me see."

To Charlie, it seemed he was a boy again—caught breaking a rule like not washing up before dinner after being told to do so. Reluctantly, he began to unbutton the second cuff, even less willing to show this arm to his father than the first. Because he'd held the knife in his right hand, Alan had been forced to restrain that side all the harder and the blossoming bruises were twice as bad as on the left. He slowly folded the cuff, pushed up the sleeve, and prepared for the reaction.

"My God." Alan touched the arm tenderly, as though it'd break, and seated himself without looking away. "It hurts?"

"No, it's fine."

"Charlie."

His father's powerful presence begged him to be truthful. "When I move it certain ways, or bump things."

"Maybe we should call the doctor and have him—"

"There's no broken bones. You're strong but not that strong," Charlie said. "They checked at the hospital."

"Thank heaven," he said. "I didn't intend to put a stranglehold on you. I was afraid you'd cut yourself."

Charlie added, "Or someone else."

Alan pushed his plate away, his meal half-eaten. "I could see David strolling in and you lunging towards him."

"Thinking he was Reylott."

"Exactly." He sighed. "I don't know my own strength."

"I didn't either," he said. Charlie meant to lighten the mood but his father didn't seem to be able to avoid staring at the bruises. Hastily, he rolled down the sleeves and rebuttoned his cuffs. "Please don't blame yourself. This is what I get for losing control."

"No. I should've stood back, gave you space until you calmed down."

"Then where would I have been? Up a tree? On the roof? Darting around the garden in my PJ's, screaming and waving a knife in the air, you chasing after me with a net? What would Mrs. Lenns think?"

Alan barely smiled. "She'd be on the phone with a real estate agent, pretty quick."

"You made a good call. It worked, didn't it?"

"I suppose," he said. "Until now, I was okay with the way I handled everything, but seeing you..." He slumped back in his chair. "I should've been more careful. I don't like bruises on my sons, especially ones there by my own hand. I'm so sorry, Charlie. I never, ever meant to do that."

"Stop with the shoulds," Charlie said. "That's the only apology I'm asking for."

Alan placed his elbow on the table, kneaded a knuckle against his thumb. "Will you forgive me?"

"Dad, come on, I'm the one who—"

"You're not a father yet," he said, adamantly. "You won't know how badly I feel about this until you are. Will you forgive me?"

Charlie crumpled his napkin. "There's nothing to forgive."

"There is. You're not the only one who lost control."

"No, we don't need to…"

"Yes," Alan said. "I was scared for you, for me, but I was also tired and angry and stressed and maybe I could've been a little less rough."

Charlie disagreed. "I don't believe that."

Falling silent, Alan rubbed his neck and swept his utensils aside, hitting a plate.

The silence was unbearable and Charlie got up, circled the table. "I don't want to upset you anymore," he said, and his father turned to him, seemed prepared to hear what he had to say. "And if it'll stop you from blaming yourself, help me make it up to you, then, all right, I forgive you."

Alan took a deep breath, his eyes shedding their worry, specks of tears. "Thank you."

Charlie went to his father, knelt on one knee and stretched to hug him. "Thank you, Dad."

---2---

An hour later, the news was grim but could have been grimmer. Each of the Eppes men had several thousand missing, traceable to a Phoenix bank account and others in neighboring states. Jacobi was a busy girl.

At the dining room table, Don updated Charlie and Alan, asking them to listen closely: "His name is Robert Altintop," he said, nursing a beer. "He's got a handful of arrests on his record but no criminal convictions. Not exactly squeaky clean, just never served any time. He's been a suspect in a few burglary cases over the last decade and has a three-year-old son named John, and he wants him back.

"About two months ago, his ex-wife, who's recently been going by Jacobi Long—she never used the name Altintop—took off with the boy. He lost track of her then hired a guy, some loser named McGann, to find her—and he did about a week ago. Altintop had him keep an eye on her, hoping she'd lead him to John. Problem was McGann hadn't been paid everything he was promised on schedule and he ran out on the job without telling Altintop he was quitting. By the time Altintop figured it out and got himself here he'd lost a couple more days. He knew Jacobi was in the city but not where."

"How'd he find her?" Charlie said.

"I'm getting to that." Don yawned, hand shielding his lips. His injury had spread, blooming into a wreath of bruises.

"Feel okay?" Alan said. "No blurry vision?"

"I'm good," he said, soothing his eyes. "Just hurts when I smile, don't mind if a don't." He went on, almost smiling after all. "Jacobi and him have a bizarre relationship. She likes to provoke him, he says, sends him letters or text messages, goads him on. While she was seeing you, Charlie, she was playing him, too. Saturday, a few hours after she left here, she called him and they argued. They hate each other and she told him he'd never see John again, later sent him a message saying if you want to find me ask Dr. Charles Eppes, intending to send you trouble."

Alan asked how Don knew this last part and Don said he'd explain in a minute.

"Altintop tracked you down pretty easily on the internet and cased the house that afternoon hoping she'd show up. He watched you and Dad, David, whole letter thing. After dark, he snuck into our yard from Mrs. Lenns' place."

"That makes sense," Charlie said. "His hands stunk. I knew I'd smelled it before—it's Mrs. Lenns' ginkgo tree. The falling fruit reeks every year, like garbage."

Don nodded. "He had a penlight on him, told us your long hair was a dead giveaway."

"Didn't hear anything." _Except cats_. "I was exhausted."

"And I didn't hear a thing until I heard a voice over the commercials. Thought you were talking in your sleep." Don stretched out a leg, continued. "Jacobi goes by a lot of names. Her specialty and now Altintop's—thanks to her—is identity theft. Jacobi Long's a stolen name. They weren't only husband and wife, they were partners. He knows her by Katherine, Katherine Reylott."

Charlie heard the name, saw Don staring at him, but didn't absorb the connection right away. "The sister?"

"She had this planned. To make you suffer for her brother."

He sat back in his chair, gripping the seat on either side. "Oh crap."

"But she's not a killer, Charlie," Don said. "She's a thief, a hacker. In fact, her goal at one time was to join the Bureau's NCCS, National Computer Crime Squad. They rejected her citing psych reasons. She has a lot of self-control, lot of guts, but when it comes to her personal life she loses it. I mean, she could've lain low, incognito, and taken it easy, instead, she knew if she set Altintop after you she could make you suffer a little longer, even if she wasn't there."

Alan said, "We never saw it coming. She seemed nice."

"Yeah, she's clever. Altintop thinks her full plan was to make you fall for her, then dump you flat, but she didn't have the chance, knowing he was onto her, so she took our bank info and ran with it, ahead of schedule no doubt."

_I was falling for her._ "And your apartment?" Charlie said. _What a fool I've been._

"Another spiteful act, more an attack, I'd say. To get back at me, steal my account numbers and anything else to break us down."

"We're lucky we didn't lose more than we did," Alan said. "How'd we catch up with the theft?"

"The real Jacobi—Jacobi Long—is no slouch, she'd hired a financial investigator who finally caught up with Katherine and stopped her from accessing accounts or opening new ones. They were onto her. Most of our money was in those accounts, transferred electronically the day she disappeared. She didn't have time to take advantage of it all before she was blocked from getting into them."

Charlie mentioned the man with the dog in the park, asked Don if he could've been Altintop's snoop, McGann.

"Maybe," he said, "if he seemed a tad too friendly."

"Who broke the window?" Alan said.

"Altintop's pointing the finger at Jacobi," Don said. "You know, to mess with Charlie's head." He sipped his beer. "It didn't take much."

Charlie bristled. "Run that by me again."

Don seemed stumped. "What'd I say?"

"Boys," Alan said, intervening. "You've been through too much to start—"

"You're suggesting I was easy prey?" Charlie asked. Don never seemed satisfied.

"I'm not. But even before the window you were having all those nightmares and panic attacks. I'm only pointing out what's already been obvious to you for a long time. You told me yourself. That's why you were going to see that Volkov guy."

"Whom you wouldn't see."

"Are you still on that projecting stuff?" Don said. He sounded annoyed. "I thought you were over that."

Alan cut in. "Can we stop this now, before either of you say something you'll regret?"

Charlie got up quickly and the chair wobbled. "I'm a scaredy-cat, right?"

"You called him that?" Alan said.

Don asked his father to stay out of it.

"How could you? Altintop almost killed him in his sleep—Charlie went after him."

"I didn't say anything to Charlie about Altintop." Don looked to his brother, evidently waiting for him to clear up their father's confusion. "He did all right even if it was foolish."

"Foolish?" Charlie said, distracted and a little unnerved when one of the lookouts zipped by the dining room window on his rounds. "The truth comes out. I protected you, Don. Again."

"I appreciate it, but you should've let me handle it." He finished his beer with a noisy sip. "And seriously, Charlie...it's crossed my mind what you told this girl about yourself that let her know exactly which cards to play with you."

"Donny," Alan said. "He didn't know she was a criminal."

"She had a line on your state of mind from the start. Made it easier for her."

Charlie had a hand on his hip, unexpectedly sensed pain. "You're mad about the money."

"No," Don said. "I just want you to be careful with what you tell strangers next time."

"Then this is my fault?"

"Boys…"

Don dragged the empty beer can across the table. "Dad, please."

"You have everything figured out, don't you?" Charlie wrapped his arms snugly over his chest. "That's why you don't have a job."

Alan admonished him. "Charlie, that's not fair."

With one fist, Don crushed the can. "So Dr. Eppes, when's your next lecture?"

"Gentlemen, this has gone far enough," Alan said, rising. His face was flushed.

Charlie felt bad; he'd waltzed right into it again, unintentionally stressing out his father. He quickly curbed his aggravation, moved away from the window. "I agree—and I apologize, I didn't intend to…" _Fed-up in Charlieland. _"Excuse me," he said, darting to the stairs. "I'm feeling really tired all of sudden."

--o--o--o--o--o--o--o--o--o--


	18. 17: Wild Animals

**Chapter Seventeen: _Wild Animals_**

---1---

_Unfair._ Despite their additional hardships, Don remained on leave and Charlie remained in the doghouse, as Dad put it, with the head of the math department. Both employers maintained that the Eppes men's latest experiences with Jacobi AKA Katherine Reylott had exacerbated their fragile psychological states and that they were not yet fit for work. For Don, nothing had changed—the psych evaluation was still on schedule. And for Charlie, a mandatory meeting at the university as soon as he cared to schedule it.

Charlie had lost a chunk of money. Several thousand and dimes. Alan about two and Don the same in addition to the damage to his home. Seems Jacobi had preferred to squander Charlie's money first in order to twist the stake in further, make him suffer, as Don had concluded.

_After all this, back where I started from. _Not knowing whether Reylott's dead or alive, wondering, forever wondering. If Jacobi/Katherine knew of her brother's final fate, she'd likely not tell. She might have assumed he was dead, sure enough to hold Charlie responsible. Altintop claimed he didn't know Reylott's ultimate fate, had never met the man but knew Katherine had spoken with him occasionally on the phone.

The night after the break in, Charlie retreated again to Don's room, the bat against the wall between the bed and nightstand. Now was not the time to fling the gauntlet at the feet of the Tortuous Trinity by returning to his own room. He and his father were sleep-deprived and that deprivation mitigated their jitters for the evening; they slept reasonably well. But once rested, on the subsequent night, Charlie was plagued with a building apprehension, compounded by a fourth demon—the one appearing on his chest like Altintop had, snatching his breath away. Alan came to him during a screamer, told him he had to go back to Volkov, asked why he'd delayed calling their physician. They argued and Charlie got out of bed and walked the room, repeating I know, I know, I haven't had time to think about it, what with being sick and tired and dealing with Jacobi and her lies. _Her eyes like her brother's._

o--o--o--o--o--o--o

The following day, Larry arrived for a second visit because the first day he'd dropped by Charlie had been asleep. From the front of the house, they strolled round to the backyard and Larry asked how he was, asked about Don, how they were getting along.

Charlie detailed his troubled nights then explained how he'd offered to help Don clean his home but he'd turned him down bluntly, saying he'd chosen to do the scrubbing and repairing himself, hiring professionals to do the rest of the job.

"Don said he didn't need me," he told Larry. "To take care of my own affairs." He'd felt dejected, as though Don were saying he'd been neglecting his responsibilities or was inept, lacking will power. _I'm trying. _They'd paused near the Japanese Maple at the perimeter of the garden and Charlie angled his face to the sun, absorbed its warmth on his skin; it'd been too many days without it.

"I'm sure he simply sought to spare you the trouble," Larry said, and they walked towards the koi pond, came upon the location of the infamous skirmish.

Charlie continued, telling him about the argument he and Don had had over the Altintop affair. Larry was politely attentive and parked himself on a granite bench between the pond and a plantar overflowing with spider plants.

"I'm responsible for allowing Jacobi into our lives," Charlie said, searching the flowerbeds for the crushed lamp. "That's how Don figures it."

"I don't see how that's possible." Larry crossed an ankle over his knee, breathed in the scent of a gardenia bloom behind the bench. "But Don has yet to overcome his fears."

"How so?"

"Charles—I'd agree with Megan on this—he's struggling with his sense of identity. You pursued Mr. Altintop but in his mind it was his job, not yours."

"It merely worked out that way. I almost failed, even forgot the bat. Don was the one who broke down the door. How could anyone be braver than that?"

"Well, when we reach a point where we lose our perspective, we can be very hard on ourselves. We refuse to accept evidence to the contrary, no matter who or what the source of that evidence, and I believe this is where your brother's mindset currently dwells. The intruder not only slipped past the lookout but by him, too. And until he can secure a reality check on his fire phobia which, I assume he's yet to vanquish, he won't be receptive to contrary facts."

A glimmer of sunlight drew Charlie's eye in amongst the weeds. "I thought he was still projecting on me."

"Don's a reasonable man. He'll eventually arrive at the realization that you've been doing the best you can with the Reylott problem—and this other unexpected situation—and conclude it's no reflection on him how you're coping."

"Which isn't very good." He leaned down, pushed the weeds aside, uncovering glass from the garden lamp bulb.

"I don't know about that, Charles, you do seem less tense."

"Because we finally caught up with Katherine Reylott. We won't be getting creepy pain and suffering messages or broken windows anymore—I hope." He stomped on the glass, used his foot to brush dirt over it. "With Reylott, I reacted out of fear. I had to shoot to save us, shivering in my boots the whole time. With Altintop…I don't know, Larry…there was this surge of anger, a madness, about protecting Don and Dad. There wasn't any fear. I heard a voice shouting, 'No one's ever going to hurt my brother again', and it took over, I went after him."

"You've mined something phenomenal within yourself." Larry plucked a gardenia off its stem. "I would observe it closely." He got up, wandered slowly back to the house. "I would think," he said, taking in the bloom's fragrance. "Don may have admonished you about Altintop for an additional reason."

Charlie followed him. "Yes?"

"Pardon me for saying this if it's a little much, but, he loves you. It frightened him when you gave chase."

"Then why doesn't he say so?" he said. "He'd rather get angry at me."

"Yes. Than to say it reminded him of his previous trauma, when you were abducted by Reylott. Can you imagine the flood of emotions he must've felt when he'd been struck and stunned by Altintop and you dashed out? For all you knew, he had a genuine sidearm, a loaded one. Don must have been overwhelmed by the danger he knew you were in while he was still struggling to pick himself up off the floor. Those emotions would be difficult for anyone to grapple with, the feeling of helplessness. Neither of you, I'd daresay, has had anytime to process what's happened in the last forty-eight hours."

The disagreeable odor of ginkgo fruit flitted by on a breeze and Charlie made a face. "Tell me about it."

Larry balanced the bloom under his nose, seemed not to notice the odor. "This lull between you two is precisely what you both need. Now that he's rested, his opinions have probably softened. You should be able to discuss things with clearer heads in the very near future."

"I suppose you're right," he said. "Circles on a sphere, after all." They'd reached the back door off the path but Charlie was in no hurry to go in and hide—perhaps something was changing within him. "But Don will have his own ideas about what should be done next."

"You'll simply have to convince him otherwise." Larry said, looking down. On the low deck, streaks of sienna spotted the flagstone. "Oh dear, is that what I think it is?"

"You wouldn't know it for the color on the rock," Charlie said. "Mine, and Don's. It's been washed but it's left a stain. I've bought a thing or two with that blood."

"And Don?"

"I don't know," he said, opening the door. "We'll have to ask him."

---2---

Larry's interpretation of Don's behavior struck Charlie as truth and he recognized that before he could step back on campus, he'd have to do one important thing, and it wasn't to see Volkov or get sleeping pills from his physician. Megan's advice had tunneled into his mind, the concept of not backing down. When he'd subdued Altintop, he'd proven to himself he had the mettle to fight back. His anxiety attacks had been programmed on automatic and likewise the ability to defend his family seemed to be also, co-existing in conflict, each lying in wait to trample over the other. _I have too much to lose; I must take control of my fate. _

Charlie was resolute; he wanted to go back up Mean Marmot Trail. He weighed whether it was best to approach his brother or go it solo. Don's mission was incomplete; there was a good chance he'd be unwilling to take company, just as before. It didn't seem equitable. They were brothers; they'd been through everything together. If they did this together, they'd double their individual strengths. Charlie felt it in his gut; he was afraid to go it solo. Hard to admit, but better than stuffing emotions down like Don did.

_A man doesn't hide from what he has to do. It takes courage to wade through all that stuff inside us that piles up and drags us down, makes us unhappy._

Charlie broached the subject with Don the next day at his apartment. As he approached, the smell of fresh paint greeted his nostrils and he discovered the door wide open while a housekeeping team walked in and out at will, carrying brooms, hauling out trash bags. Inside, Don was speaking to an elderly woman who appeared to be in charge of the workers and he pointed towards the carpet, explaining why the neighbors hadn't reported anything amiss the day the place had been vandalized.

Shortly, the woman exited, giving Charlie a motherly grin as she passed. All around, the apartment was a disaster zone. Workers on their knees washed multi-colored spots by hand from the carpet; others toiled at removing stains from the walls and preparing the windows with masking tape. The ripped furniture had been pushed to the middle of the room, torn curtains bundled into a heap on top. Charlie knew it would all have to be thrown out.

"I'm sorry about this." He poked at an armchair cushion, its stuffing bursting out like giant popcorn. "I had no reason to think Jacobi was other than she presented herself."

Don walked toward the kitchen, motioning for him to follow. His face was exceptionally serious and his bruises had expanded out another inch, right into his sideburn. "Dad called me," he said, turning around. "I was upset…more tired than I knew… but I wasn't blaming you. Jacobi reeled you in at a vulnerable time. Her music reminded you of mom, didn't it?" He flicked a fleeting smile. "Snared you with her hottie status."

_Snared and skinned. _"That's a relief to hear. Any news on your accounts?"

"Holding at two K. I'm lucky. Megan says she's stolen up to a hundred K at a time." He picked up a plastic grocery bag amongst several on the counter. "How's the cough?"

"Getting over it." Charlie stepped aside to allow a worker into the kitchen. Its walls had been freshly painted and a tarp remained on the floor. "Any news on her?"

"No. The kid either. They'll get her. Sooner or later, she'll slip up."

"Listen," Charlie said. "Dad saw my arms. No need to keep it secret."

"How'd he take it?"

"He felt guilty, but we're all right now. He told me you're leaving for Marmot Trail again."

"I am. Cleaners should be done today." At the refrigerator, which was spotless but barren, he began to unload the contents of the bag. "I'm planning on tomorrow A.M., fresh."

"I still want to go with you."

"I'm going alone," Don said. "I need it more than you do."

"Why do you need it more than me? What qualifies you? After everything that's happened, everyone who's come galloping through my house and your house…" Charlie heard himself yelling and slowed down his words. "We were both with Reylott, both there the other night with Altintop…"

"One has nothing to do with the other."

"How can you say that?" Charlie asked, excited again.

"You weren't in those fires, I was. Either one." He grabbed another bag. "No way around it, Charlie. I have to do this by myself."

"Why?"

"I don't know, because it's spookier that way and I'm game for the challenge?"

Charlie said, "You don't want me to see you scared, do you?"

"Now who's projecting?" He plopped the tomatoes into a bin. "Why do you want to come with me anyway? You afraid to go alone?"

"I'd do it alone in a blink."

Don shut the bin and straightened up, dared him. "Go ahead."

"I'm not scared any more than you," Charlie said. "You're the one who's scared."

He crinkled the bag. "Yeah? All right, be a kid—prove it."

"Let me come, and I will." _A challenge of my own._

"Negative. You have stitches."

"They won't slow me down—and they're quite healing nicely, thank you." Charlie slammed the fridge door shut. "I have a proposal. We hike up together then I go ahead to the cave and spend the night there, you stay at the cabin."

Don seemed to ponder it, his eyes more worried than contemplative, then said, "No cell phones. On your honor, no flashlights once they're off. Can't use 'em."

"Won't phone you or anyone. On my honor. Light's off."

"Are you sure you can handle it? I can't go traipsing through the woods in the dark if you chicken out."

Charlie said, "Who went after Altintop? Foolish or not."

"Hey, buddy, I would've if he hadn't walloped me."

"Why won't you give me credit for that? Admit it, you wet your pants when Reylott had you and now it's all in your head, screwing up Big Bad Don, isn't it?"

"I'll see you seven A.M., sharp." Don returned to the grocery bags. "Be ready, on time."

_Sir Don, the stubborn Eppes. _Charlie turned to go. "Don't be late," he said, sweeping his finger over a cupboard. "You missed a spot."

---3---

In contrast to their previous hike up to the cabin, Charlie's and Don's second excursion along Mean Marmot Trail was cooler, promising unclouded skies. On the trip up, they'd spoken intermittently and Charlie had napped while Don drove, listening to news. Once on the bus shuttle, they'd been surrounded not only by vegetation but by a tension in the air between them. To ease it, Charlie had engaged a conversation with a Peruvian couple who were exploring U.S. landmarks.

'_I'll walk you through it'—that's what you told me, isn't it, Don? Is this what you meant? You'd walk next to me completely immersed in your own world. I know that faraway look in your eyes. I've known it all my life. You got into this world first, years before me, and you've never let me forget, even without saying a thing. You and Dad have always had something special. He must've been a lot like you when he was your age._

As they'd left home, their father had misgivings, then bid them good luck, said he'd trust his sons to work everything out, that's what he raised them to do, be self-sufficient, but depend on one another when necessary. No one's independent 24-7, he told Charlie, I hope you two come to terms with that.

_Tell Don. _Charlie pushed through his nervousness, kept an eye on the trail and reminded himself Reylott was a shadow, no longer flesh, truly a ghost with no substance. In one night, it'll be over, I'll be re-fortified. Reinstate the old Charlie, bust out of that old metal ribcage, unharmed.

They reached the cabin before nightfall and examined the mess, untouched since the fire. Logs which had been marked out in a rectangle around the thirty-foot perimeter were still in place but inside that zone, shrubs, grasses and shoots had begun to reclaim sections of the clearing. Eventually, the owners had plans to rebuild. Portions of wall were still vertical, the remainder ruins of pointed heaps.

"Where will you sleep?" Charlie asked, putting his pack down.

"Maybe on the deck, find a space. What's left of it."

They snacked, drank water on the steps. The scent of pine invigorated Charlie; made him feel as though he were absorbing their stamina, their resilience. Yet when it came time to part, a familiar flutter sliced into his gut. _Damn it, it's just a beautiful day in early fall, why do I feel like it's a death sentence?_

"You better get going," Don said. "Shouldn't be climbing the mountain after dark."

He got up, slipped on his backpack, stared at the ground. His feet wouldn't budge._ Square one in Charlieland. _

Don was seated on a charred stair. "You breathing? I thought you'd be okay."

Charlie said, "Don't rush me."

"Want me to take a look at those stitches?"

He couldn't move.

"Know where it is?" Don said, getting out a bag of sunflower seeds. "Want me to walk you?"

"Stop the sarcasm. I can do it."

"I'm serious. The color's drained from you face. It isn't hard to see—"

Charlie marched off, proceeded to the perimeter and halted. "This is tougher than I thought it would be," he called back.

Don tossed the seeds to his pack and went to him, pine needles crunching underfoot.

"I have an extreme aversion to separation," Charlie said. "How do you do it?"

"I handle it differently, that's all."

"You brought your gun, didn't you?"

"As a matter of fact, yes." Don swept a hand across his forehead. "But it's packed away."

"No wonder you feel confident."

"Charlie, a gun's no help with what I'm dealing with."

He pulled up his shoulder strap. "And you're dealing with?"

Don said, "Right now? My little brother."

_And your equal?_ He removed his pack and sat on a log with a limb on one end that wasn't quite level.When it wobbled, he steadied himself, an ache in his side. The wound had nipped at him the whole way. _Complicated. _He studied Don. His brother's expression had taken on a milder appearance, as if the hike had pacified the storm within him.

"Mostly in life," Charlie said. "I've been able to do things for myself. Other times, I've been in over my head."

Don joined him on the log. "And now?"

"I feel paralyzed."

"Charlie," he said. "I don't want you to give up. I want you to go up there and say 'fuck you' to the fear, growl and run at it like a wild animal until your heart's so hyped you're going to have to run faster just to slow it down."

"Wild animal. Would that constitute a hell of a job?"

"That what's bothering you," Don said, "what I think?"

Charlie jammed a heel into the loose topsoil. "I am a scaredy-cat."

"You're not."

"Why did it have to be me?" he said. "Why did I have to pull the trigger?"

"Well, you were the only one there who could." Don dusted his knees with firm slaps. "I was a little indisposed. But if it makes you feel any better I've been thinking…"

"You can't stand to look at me?"

Don stopped dusting and grinned gently, shook his head. "No. Thinking Megan's right. She and I had a long talk. It hasn't been about you, not really. More like I couldn't stand to look at myself. See, when Dad told me you were having nightmares, it didn't affect me, that was you, you'd need the shrink. I was certain I was fine. The sleeping problem would fade out. But after I flaked out, everything got worse, I wanted to get as far away as I could from all of it, including you. I hated the way I felt. It seemed like Reylott was humiliating me all over again." He lightly pressed the Band-Aid on his face, the darkest purples showing round the edges. "Then you got sick. And the Jacobi thing and Altintop, the Reylott sightings. It even bothered me you took Altintop down. It was proof that I'd lost who I was. Everything happened so fast…the damage was done."

"Megan says you don't talk about Reylott and the fire."

"Reylott won that time, mashed me into pulp. I'd still like to claw his eyes out. Because of him, I've been hard on you and puny fires scare the crap out of me. Last time I checked I think I was even afraid of matches."

"I'm sorry about the Big Bad Don remark. Being afraid is—"

"Afraid, yeah. I have nightmares, too," he said, and got up. "Didn't want anyone to know." He strolled out of the clearing with fingertips in his pockets, thumbs out, and scanned the sky toward the cliffs. "I relive the fire. You have no idea, Charlie, it was…there's no word for it. I woke up with the flames going full blast. Saw your cot engulfed, tried to get into the room from the window and set myself on fire." He turned and came back to him. "I rolled and put it out, yelling your name the whole time. Didn't even feel much pain, not then. I passed out, woke up in agony, to Reylott on the phone, taunting me. He put a .38 in my face and dragged me, hit me, made me look for your body in the rubble. I got sick to think I'd find something. I'd lost you. It was real, as real as losing mom."

Charlie restrained his hate for Reylott, but the overflow brimmed his lids. "It makes me furious to know he did that to you."

"We survived," Don said. "That's what's important." He'd bowed his head, slowly raised it to meet Charlie's gaze. "I'm sorry, too—I pushed you away and rode off into the sunset. Like a coward."

"Don't say that, never a coward. It's been hard for both of us."

"Thanks." Don walked back to the cabin, grabbed his pack. "Come on. I'll get you to the cave."

Charlie wiped an eye, collected his things. "I have to do it on my own."

"You will. I'll escort you, then go," Don said, and they clasped hands tightly in agreement, headed toward the outcropping.

o--o--o--o--o--o--o--o--o--o--o


	19. 18: On Your Honor

**Chapter Eighteen: _On Your Honor_**

---1---

While Don stayed below, Charlie climbed towards the cave, taking regular breaks, wondering if the tingling throb around his stitches would allow him to reach the top before dark. When he made it to the base of the outcropping, he looked down at Don and waved, breathless and thirsty, wondering what he was doing up here again. Only a crazy man would do this. _I am, I am. _

"Take it to hell!" Don said, and he punched a fist in the air, his cheers echoing against the rock face.

Charlie watched him retreat, getting smaller, dipping into the groves, and squelched the urge to call him back. As soon as he was out of sight, the Trinity invaded, advancing fully armed. _Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea._ Taking out his earphones and player, he tried sensory-pounding music to chase the Trinity away but the noise severed him from both his sense of place and the sounds of the forest and he ended up feeling as though someone would sneak up and tear his head from his body. He snatched the earphones off, stuffed them back into his pack. After a few minutes to collect himself, he pushed on and ascended the boulders, carefully setting his footholds into the crevices and cracks.

Perspiring, he came round the other side and sat down outside the threshold of the cave on a circle of patchy grass. Immediately, his reserves began to falter and he relied on the usual procedures: Hand over mouth, count, count—but from where he'd come to rest—enclosed in the center of overlapping boulders—claustrophobia set in and the idea of sunset terrified him. The command was forceful and clear: _Move! _and he jumped up, winced and scolded himself for not being smarter about his side, then clambered back over the rocks, lowering himself to the earth, and started down. _I can't do this. I haven't conquered my bedroom and I think I can conquer this? _The trees below seemed to dance and after descending about twenty feet, he felt light-headed and fell to the earth, hugged a young pine tree, hoping it would somehow ground him to reality, stem the spiral of ominous thoughts. Unlike his conflicted mind, the tree neither battled with itself nor had it split its being in two; it existed as one with the life around it. He closed his eyes momentarily, pressed his face to the bark, then pulled out his cell phone, brought up Don's number.

_What's the worst that can happen? I pass out from over-breathing, come to feeling like a goofball. Or a bear will eat me for dinner, whichever comes first. _

_I can't go back without doing this._ It's one night. Go into the cave. It's your choice today—no blindfold, no cuffs, no spiked water, no gun at your back. Don't let the Reylotts win. Jacobi—you betrayed my trust. From now on, I'll strictly date women who let me do the serenading. Money won't get you what you really need; you'll always be a servant to your greed and vengeance.

Don—you're not super human, why have I been so desperate, imagining you should be? You said you'd have to help yourself before you could help me. I've been entangled in my own head, sick to boot, and didn't think you might need _my_ help. Just like Dad, Mom would've wanted us to be patient with each another.

_No backing down. Or the blood will keep splattering, the nightmares go on. Trust myself. No such things as omens. Soothe the mind; resume operations. Make me normal, cared for. Don't abandon yourself. Until you do something to an object it won't move. Juice. I grew up beautifully. Try my molehill…excruciating. _

_Won't chicken out in Charlieland. _He sent the call through.

"Phones already?" Don said. "How's the cave?"

"Cave's a cave. I—"

"You aren't in the cave are you?"

"It's not going anywhere and that's not why I called," he said, peeling a dab of sap off his ear. "I called to let you know you're going to sleep great tonight. And when we get home, everything's going to work out on your job."

"You sound a little shaky."

"Damn it, never mind that."

"I hear you, Charlie. Same to you. Thanks."

"You're welcome," he said. "See you in the morning."

---2---

In Charlie's book, there was no blackness as black as that in a cave: the ground cold and steely, isolation like a grave. After Reylott deserted him, he'd trembled, virtually blind, restrained like the prisoner in Poe's _The Pit and the Pendulum—_minus the gnawing rats—terrified he'd slowly starve, skeletonized before he could be rescued, not knowing if his abductor would return to finish him off. He'd jerked hysterically at the pitons, skin crawling, heard dripping water, skittering stones and screeches from outside; wind and a whirring noise he'd never identified. It'd been a blessing the water was drugged and eventually put him to sleep. Once unconscious, he'd been released from the horror. But it had scarred him nonetheless. He'd brought the blackness home with him.

Sunset. He returned to the cave entrance, regretting the energy he'd wasted on the temporary retreat, and took out his flashlight, pitched his pack through the threshold. He had no choice but to stay now; his side couldn't take more of this, a stitch could bust. He unbuckled his belt and scrunched down the waistband, saw that the sticky bandage had slid down, half stuck to the wound, and his clothing had rubbed against it, made it tender and red. After readjusting the tape, he took a deep breath, stuck a leg into the cave and crouched to clear his head. His movements reverberated, amplified by the enclosure, and his vision began to adjust to the dimness. _I wish I had my bat._

Why am I dragging myself through this? Is it any wiser to confront this by force rather than stay home and take care of it through Dr. Volkov, gently progressing? Rationalizing, I'm rationalizing and doing an inadequate job. Get it in perspective, Eppes. You're here already, aren't you? And something tells me this may not be the "right" or perfect thing to do—someone like Volkov wouldn't appreciate the sink-or-swim approach—but today, for me, it's the right…well, it's what I'm going to do.

The cave appeared unchanged, yet seemed to be waiting for him. Nothing to indicate anyone had been there before. Same light from the dayhole, about twenty feet in, growing weaker. Where to spend the night? Where I was previously imprisoned. Stick it to Reylott, get it done. _In your face to a very likely dead man._

Securing his backpack, he inhaled stiffly and inched forward. The ceiling dipped and he bowed up and down, bumping his head twice, and reached the dayhole. The sole sounds were water drips and loose stones scratching over the dirt layer every time he accidentally booted them about. He peeked upwards, into the dayhole's vertical tunnel. It was beautiful; the light stole in, pure and angelic, caressed the floor at his feet.

Ahead, he observed the large mini-outcropping where he'd been chained and set his pack down under the dayhole, turned on his flashlight. The area where he'd lain didn't look so menacing now: Two holes in the wall where the pitons had been staked, everything else collected as evidence. Only gravel and stones remained.

In the corner where he'd trembled, he spread out his sleeping bag in case he managed to fall asleep. He remembered being worried sick about Don—if Reylott intended to hurt or kill him. And he'd been correct; Don had been hurt. What he hadn't expected was that afterwards, the hurt would go on indefinitely.

The last light diminished, temperature dipping. He hadn't brought a lamp, only spare batteries, and the flashlight would remain on despite his _on your honor_ to Don. Charlie couldn't see doing without it at this juncture. He was apprehensive, lonely.

He brought out his blanket, pulled it taut round his body and crept to the rear of the cave to examine the place where he and Don had sought escape from Reylott, recalling the sniper fire, Don's fall and the ubiquitous mud, the trek through the cave and gun later lost in the tumble over the ravine.

_I killed a man._ He shook his head. Unbelievable. I wasn't bred, reared or educated for such an act. I'm a mathematician, for Pete's sake. If there'd been another way…_tell me it'll be over someday, Dad_.

_I promise, it will be._

Charlie made a promise to himself: there would be a conclusion to this adventure, a satisfactory one. If not tomorrow morning, he'd absolutely make it happen before the Reylotts could wrench away anymore of his precious life—and Don's and their father's. All would be restored in Charlieland.

At the opening, he refueled, sitting and listening to the flutter and chirps of the night fowl, squeaks of nocturnal rodents and rustling branches, his flashlight propped beside him. Moonlight was hours away when the Earth's friendly, waxing satellite would rise nearer to sunrise than nighttime, too late to be of service.

He rewrapped the blanket closely round his shoulders, decided the threshold would do to sleep by and got comfortable. He flicked off the flashlight but couldn't bear it and flicked it back on. His heart thumped like a kettle drum to imagine the depths of darkness, the unknown. This is going to be a long night.

His thoughts were a whirlwind. Control them, Charlie, and you'll control your reactions. _But they're in there. _Who? A collection of illusions. A Tortuous Trinity without teeth. I'm the wild animal, the one with pointy teeth. When I bite, I won't let go.

He mustered up courage and rose, returned to the mini-outcrop within the cave and settled in the corner, light on and sitting up, tempted to call someone, to hear a human being. Don wouldn't know. Instead, he spoke out loud, surprised to hear how tangible his voice became as it bounced and boomed off the walls. It suited him. For days he'd felt powerless and he loved hearing its unmistakable impact on the environment.

"Hello," he said, the sound resonating. "I'm Dr. Charlie Eppes." He waited. It seemed the polite thing to do for the sake of the natural world which had received him as guest. _Does it mind if I toss dirty laundry out in its home?_ he thought, and continued, growing accustomed to the echo.

"I'm not afraid of you Reylott, or your ghost or your kooky sister, or the demon bed, or those worthless nightmares that mess up my brain efficiency when I need it most. I don't deserve to be treated this way. I'm a good person. I care about others. I lost Mom and Dad lives with me because I want him to and I have a brother who's in the same boat as I am but damn it, we're tough and we're going to win big time tonight, together or apart. Armen Reylott, you gave me no choice. I did what I had to do to save me and Don. I'd do it again if I had to. It's your fault you're dead. You killed yourself, jerk." He sat forward, shaking his fists at the Trinity. "Screw you!"

By the end of his speech, Charlie was laughing and misty-eyed, feeling as though he'd broken through a barrier and begun to exorcise the burdens relentlessly heaped upon him for weeks. Don, you don't have to walk me through it; I can go it on my own, sort of.

When he calmed down, the silence resumed, his spirit consoled. The natural world, the cave itself, seemed to understand, to grant him empathy, unconditionally drawing him in to share its wholeness. Drowsy, his muscles sore from the climb, he dozed and somewhere in the night lay down and turned off the light, then turned it on again, then off, as it was neither a complete serenity nor an instantaneous one. The Tortuous Trinity did not give up without a fight. Yet, he found solace in a newborn conviction and by the faintest, earliest light, he slept soundly knowing sunrise would soon supplant the indefinite dawn. He awoke dazed but encouraged, recalling how Don had been the first thing he'd seen when he was last here, reunited after the harrowing night. _We survived, that's what's important. _He grabbed his ringing cell phone.

Don seemed upbeat. "Charlie, my man, ready for breakfast?"

He cleared his throat. "How'd you do?"

"Cinch," he said. "I'll be waiting. You good?"

"It's a nice place to visit…"

"Don't sweat it, you don't have to live there," he said. "I knew you could do it."

_o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o_


	20. 19: The Tests

**Chapter Nineteen: _The Tests_**

---1---

Charlie marched back to the cabin with a bounce in his step, feeling he'd won a battle, banished the Trinity. Even his side didn't seem to bother him as much. The entire night the cave had sheltered him— cocooned within its belly—and he came to realize that the danger had never resided in the cave or the darkness, but in Reylott's savage mind.

On the way, he passed a now familiar grouping of fir trees with thick underbrush and further down, an isolated four-meter stump which had been struck by lightning, splintering and scorching the top part into oblivion. Nearing the cabin, he signaled to Don and walked over whirling trails of sunflower seed shells scattered about the clearing as though Don had been pacing and munching at the same time—and in the shadows yet. It made him doubt whether Don's night had actually been such a cinch.

Don came round the front of the cabin and greeted him with a pat on the shoulder, asked if the stitches had held up all the way up and down the mountain. Although Charlie assured him they'd survived intact, Don wanted to take a look and Charlie relaxed while he disinfected the area and replaced the bandage, padding on extra gauze.

"That should protect it," he said, lining up the last strip of tape. "It's a little irritated."

After the doctoring and a bite to eat, they backtracked to the river to spend a second night. There, Don contacted their father mid-afternoon, told him everything was fine. As he listened, Charlie waded into the murmuring current just off the riverbank and studied the teal green river rocks below; they'd been there for centuries and seemed to be sending him a message: the past is past; it's time to move on.

Don finished his call, knelt by the dry border of the bank. "How'd you do last night?"

The water was chilly and Charlie stepped onto two flat stones, his toes numbed. "I came to terms with a few things."

"Like?"

"Reylott. His death. I accept it. I killed a man, but he brought it on himself. I'm not to blame."

The current lapped over Don's knuckles. "Huge step, Charlie."

"You get the old Don back last night?"

He swirled the sand, created an underwater cloud. "Not sure."

Charlie said, "You were a little restless."

"I'll own up, was kind of creepy. I hung out on the deck, then had to move, ended up about fifteen feet out. Close enough. I was beat but couldn't get to sleep. Up and down all night. I wanted to check on you, too."

On the river bottom, Fool's Gold coruscated delicately and Charlie admired its shine. "Think you're over fires?"

"I really don't know."

"Wish there was some way we could…" Charlie got up, the memory of the stump he'd passed painted on his mind. It'd been set ablaze by lightning, but the fire hadn't spread. It'd been naturally self-contained because there were few trees surrounding it. "I have an idea. A test."

"Oh boy, leave it to a mathematician to deploy a test."

"Why don't we build a bonfire?" Charlie said, jumping back to the bank.

"Charlie, we have a wilderness permit and a campfire permit. I don't think they issue bonfire permits."

"Nevertheless, this is an enormous forest, and this will be a substantial feat. We go back to the cabin, clear a fire ring, stones all around, safe distance from the branches, all that stuff, and gather up twigs, leaves and voila—bonfire!"

"I don't think that's legal."

"You're such an FBI agent." Charlie shook sand out of his socks and boots. "Look, it'll be somewhere between a campfire and a bonfire, not a full-sized bonfire."

Don had splashed water on his face and droplets sparkled along his hairline. "Why do we need a fire?"

"Question is, why do _you_ need a fire?"

"I don't need a fire," he said, "but you need a nice long rest."

"Incorrect—you do need one, you have to build it yourself." His sock had unraveled and he folded it over to cover the hole. "Until your heart's so hyped you'll have to run faster just to slow it down."

"They'll spot it."

"They didn't spot a blazing blaze in the middle of the night, why this puny one? Odds are, no one will see it."

Don was selecting flat rocks from the riverbank. "What good would it do?"

"It's a power thing. The dark had power over me, so I slept in it."

"You want me to sleep in a fire?" he said, casting out a rock. It skipped three times, creating swells of interlocking ripples.

"Incorrect again." Charlie tugged on a boot. "I took charge. You need to take charge, too. Become the builder of the fire, the fire _master_, not the slave."

Don said, "Makes me nervous just thinking about it."

"It does? What additional proof could you have that this is crucial?"

"We have to be careful." He cast out another rock and it bounced off a boulder.

"Of course," Charlie said. "We won't leave until the ashes are cold to the touch."

"No wind. We can't do it if there's wind."

Charlie licked a finger and stuck it in the air. "No wind," he said, and watched the tree limbs for movement. "Zero breeze."

"All right." Don tossed a final rock; it skipped four times. "It's now or never."

_-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-_

Like warriors in a tribe of two, they returned to the cabin and chose an area with the fewest overgrown weeds and cleared it, constructing a fire ring about ten feet in diameter with stones, far from the tree line. Afterwards, they gathered twigs, branches and leaves, piling them high, then waited for nightfall. While passing the time, Don re-checked Charlie's injury, told him there was no swelling and Charlie repaid the favor by getting out the first aid kit and putting a fresh bandage on Don's cut.

When it was well into twilight, Charlie handed his brother the matches. "You do the honors," he said.

Don tore out a match and scratched it across the surface tab. It ignited with a miniature burst and he threw it into the leaves where it fizzled out. He removed a second one and crouched down to ensure it would ignite, blowing into the dry pile. It began to thrive, worming through beneath the leafy surface to the other side, the dove-tailed flames meeting in the middle.

Charlie clicked off his flashlight to keep tabs on Don, see what he'd do. The glow had apparently entranced him and he stared into it, guarding the matches in one hand and holding a tall walking stick in the other like a sword. Slowly, he stuffed the matches into his pocket and stoked the fire, gave it oxygen. It expanded, growing taller, over their heads.

"We need more fuel," Don said, which surprised Charlie. _He's really getting into this. _

Dropping his sword-stick to the ground, Don went to the perimeter and brought back an armful of wood scraps draped across both limbs. He flung them in and the fire soared higher, its flickering light a scherzo of plumes, the brisk incandescence reflected into the foliage and onto the ruins, painting their bodies and faces with its pulsating flow.

"Fantastic," Charlie said. "We've done it." He checked Don's face: The new bandage on his cheek had fallen away with sweat and the wound was exposed, red and scabbed, dirtied with soot. He seemed satisfied—then his pleasurable expression faded.

"More," Don said, and he picked up his sword-stick, speared it into the fire. The heat had increased and Charlie wondered how he could bear to be so close.

Charlie said, "There's a breeze picking up."

Don stopped and scanned the area. "No there isn't."

There wasn't, but Charlie felt the fire was large enough and even he had his limits, hoping he hadn't created a Don the Frankenstein.

At the ruins, Don had ascended the choppy steps, tugging at one of the charred planks in the deck. He broke a few boards out, bundling the black wood with his elbows. Returning, he dropped them by the fire and flung one in. "Come on, try one," he said, grinning.

The fire appeared safe, encircled by the vast clearing, and the spirit of adventure reeled Charlie in. He yielded to the task, snatched a plank and chucked it into the flames, going to the ruins to get additional fuel. There he broke off out a piece and halted mid-pull, feeling a twinge of pain from his side. Trying again, he heard Don howling like a wild animal, a wolf, watched him gleefully weave round the fire, viewing his creation from all angles. He smiled, wondering if the impromptu ceremony would truly release Don from the past.

Clutching the wood, he returned to the fire and hurled short planks into it one by one. It roared and Don expressed his appreciation, calling out with whoops and cheers. Charlie had never seen him excited in quite such a way and he breathed in the aroma of the wood. It smelled grand and favorable like a fresh Christmas tree branch in the fireplace but the unbearable heat kept him several feet away, moving constantly as he joined the celebration, praising their handiwork.

Don yelled freely—unburdened, at least for the night. For the occasion, he'd cast off his self-consciousness and been transformed into the opposite sort of man he was at home: the cool, detached agent. It was odd; Don had unmasked a part of himself he hadn't revealed before in order to regain what he was, to rebuild his identity and reclaim his life, his job, his raison d'etre —everything that had made him the person he was.

"Call me master," Don said, hurling in a leftover branch. "We both are!" And he ran towards his hapless brother, arms opened to enfold him.

Charlie saw him charging and backed away, knowing he would be treated to a powerful, energetic embrace; sure he'd be tackled to the ground. Don hit him running, trapped him in a bear hug and squeezed until Charlie begged off, said he couldn't breathe, expelling a sharp cough when let go.

Don laughed, apologized for maiming the stitches. They turned to the fire and it popped and sizzled, reaffirming their dominance.

"You did it!" Charlie said, arm across his middle. "You built it. We're still here." _It didn't kill me, didn't burn you._ _We're fearless, uncomplicated, wild. _

Side by side, they began to sing:

_In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lion sleeps tonight_

_In the jungle, the quiet jungle, the lion sleeps tonight _

Breaking into parts, Charlie let loose a string of _a-wee-mah-wahs_ in the accompaniment that rocked the forest while Don belted out the lead:

_Near the village, the peaceful village, the lion sleeps tonight_

_Hush my darling, don't fear my darling, the lion sleeps tonight_

Then he improvised:

_It's my fire, we love our fire, the bad man sleeps tonight_

_It's not good singing, but Charlie's trying, the lions roar tonight_

Charlie watched him play, hoping this would be a kind of catharsis, be enough to heal his pain. It had to help. He pictured their father, thought about what he'd do if he were here with them.

_Can you imagine that, Dad? Don called himself a coward...a man who's always been my hero. _

I can imagine it, Alan would say; but I'd never believe it.

---2---

They fed the fire, stoking it to a maximum point, as high as they dared, then backing off. Thereafter, it extinguished naturally, leaves and twigs burning first, the planks already half-consumed, reduced to powdery ashes.

But before the fire was out, Don informed Charlie that he'd come up with a test of his own and produced the gun from his backpack. Fire it, he said, up into the sky towards the cliffs, and see if it wins, or you do.

Charlie faltered for a moment, gauging what he wanted to do. "What would it prove?"

"You'll know," Don said. "If I'm right, you've got nothing to prove to anybody, just yourself."

He hesitated, looking back and forth between Don and the gun. Finally, he accepted the weapon and without delay, gripped it in both hands, discharging it once. He flinched, then fired again and flinched a little less. The third time, the flinch was almost imperceptible and he handed it back, shaking.

Don accepted it. "All right?"

"I think…a little nerve-racking," he said. It hadn't been comfortable to hear the gunshots, feel the kicks, the jabs of pain in the palm that came with them, but he'd done it. He'd handled and commanded a gun, pulled the trigger for the first time since Reylott.

In the wee early hours, as Charlie had declared they would do, they waited until the ashes had cooled before leaving the area. Mostly cooled. They'd had to drown it with dirt to be certain there wouldn't be any fiery accidents. Their clothes were blackened with soot and in the morning light, Charlie wiped his face with a shirt whereupon Don told him you'd better wait until you get to the river, because I can't tell where your forehead ends and your hair starts.

They arrived in the city the next night and Don left Charlie off before going home to much needed R&R. On the drive back, they'd learned from Megan that sightings of the phantom Reylott had dried out but authorities persisted in their search for Katherine, AKA Jacobi Genini or Long, and other aliases. They'd lost her trail; there were no leads. They did learn she'd rented a small semi-furnished home near Charlie's which upon inspection provided few clues concerning her habits other than she genuinely liked to bake. Evidently, she hadn't intended to stay long because the fridge was bare and she'd been sleeping on the floor. Her deceased mother, college classes and cat tales had been fictitious.

Charlie told his father he was spent, dumped his pack on the floor and plodded upstairs to wash up. Back in his room, he put the baseball bat into the closet and turned down the covers. _My room is a room, not a castle dungeon; my bed is a bed, not a medieval rack._

His father knocked, came in. "Get done what you needed to?"

"Cinch," he said, and lay down. "Good night, Dad."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Alan said, "This is your room, you know, don't you?"

"I do. And—I can say with reasonable certainty—tonight, there will be peace in Charlieland." He flicked off the lamp.

"We'll see." Alan stepped out. "Good night."

Charlie flipped to his good side, called his father back. "Do me a favor," he said. "Turn off the hall light."

---3---

The subsequent week, with Larry acting as unofficial mediator, Charlie mended his working relationships with colleagues and others he'd offended during lapses and errors in the execution of his duties. At his office desk, he sorted through a pile of documents which had accumulated in his absence, prioritizing them into separate stacks. Larry, sitting opposite him, studied the computer schematic of the sundial sphere.

"What do you think?" Charlie said. "Doable?"

"We may have to request the services of an artist. One who welds. I have a friend who loves sculptures and sculpting, an art instructor, who might be able to recommend someone. He may have a student or two who does metalwork."

"I never considered that."

"You've exhibited more phases than the moon recently, Charles, I suppose a detail or two was bound to escape you."

Charlie wadded up a memo and tossed it into the trashcan. Taking a highlighter pen, he marked dates on a stack then paused, tapping the pen on the desk. "I wasn't always polite with you," he said. "I'd like to apologize."

"Although you should give yourself credit," Larry said, "I'm uncertain whether I would've taken the route you chose. Your night in the cave must've been a nail-biting experience."

"There's some things we can't back down from or we end up believing we can't do anything right." Charlie's cell phone rang and he twirled the chair towards the window. "Excuse me," he said, and answered without recognizing the number.

Her voice floated in, excessively sweet. "Finish the chocolates?"

"Jacobi?" _I don't believe it._ Charlie abruptly motioned to Larry to get his attention, snatching up a pencil. "They weren't very good after all," he said. "I want my money back."

"Wasted every dollar I could," she said. "Still jittery, Charlie?"

He scribbled a note, mouthing a message to Larry at the same time: _555-4947 Call David, get a trace. _"They're going to catch you someday, Jacobi…Katherine. Whatever your name is."

She said, "I wanted to let you know I enjoyed seeing you squirm."

Charlie watched Larry dial out on the office phone. He had to keep her on as long as possible. "You're as bad as your brother was."

"And I enjoyed hearing you talk to your mommy." She laughed. "It was touching. A little pathetic, too." She laughed again, scornfully like a mad scientist.

"I'm hanging up," Charlie said. Larry appeared to have had no luck and was redialing.

"No you won't," she said. "Because you're trying to get them to locate me, aren't you? You won't find me. I'll be sailing the oceans."

Charlie sprung up, walked round the room. _Keep her talking_, he thought "Eventually we will."

Larry had reached someone, speaking in whispers with an eye on Charlie and Charlie's eye on him.

"Until then, I'll be dreaming about you, pretty boy." Her tone changed. "You know, I could've had you in my arms, but I couldn't do it. Every time I thought about Armen, I had to pinch myself to keep from cleaning your clock. Darn it all, if only I'd had the time. Oh well, I had you going, didn't I?"

Charlie's leg bumped the trashcan and it tumbled over. He ignored it. "I never would've slept with you."

"Sure you would've. Your face was like putty after that kiss, I could've shaped it anyway I wanted."

"You're the one that missed out," he said, and mouthed a silent word to Larry, making little hurry-up circles in the air: _Well?_

"Yeah, Charlie," she said. "You're probably right. I have a feeling you're a girl's best friend in bed."

Larry was holding five fingers up, palm outstretched.

"Is your brother dead?" Charlie said.

"You should know, you shot him," she said, giggling. "I love it, you're not sure! He's coming to get you, lover."

Larry had four fingers up, counting down.

_Incite her anger. _"He actually believed he was as brilliant as I am."

"You aren't that smart, Eppes."

Larry had three fingers up.

"I've earned degrees to prove it. You have nothing, you're a wanna-be. A disgrace to your son."

"Shut up." Her voice was shrill—Charlie had touched a nerve. "I'm the one who tanked your cash," she said.

Two fingers.

"Not very well done, Jacobi, you're as clumsy as your brother was." _But not as ugly._

"We'll continue this some other time, huh?" She seemed to regain control, her tone resweetened. "By the way, your peacock rock? Lovely. I'll treasure it eternally."

Larry had one finger to go.

"See ya' " she said. "I'll catch you on the web."

Charlie added, "You're a lousy flutist," but she disconnected as Larry folded down his last finger. "She hung up. Did they pinpoint her location?"

"Trace was incomplete," Larry said. "There wasn't enough time. They'll follow up on it."

_Damn. _Charlie plopped into his chair, exasperated. "Heard any good jokes lately?"

_-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-_


	21. 20: Thicker Than Water

**Chapter Twenty: _Thicker Than Water_**

---1---

Everyone—including the Eppes family and the authorities—anticipated further calls from Jacobi and prepared to intercept them but there were none in the weeks after her single call. The phone number itself—which Charlie had so quickly noted—was tracked by the experts and had turned out to belong to a woman whose purse had been stolen along with her cellular.

Jacobi's silence did not disappoint Charlie. If she had continued to contact him, it would've meant a Reylott would have continued to harass him and he'd had enough of them and the damage they'd inflicted upon his household. Don and Megan speculated, telling him that Jacobi might have unintentionally fallen in love with him and had to have one last chat...or, she hadn't given up playing badminton with his head, unable to resist one last slap. It was also possible her silence had something to do with her son John, her desire to keep the boy's whereabouts secret.

As for Robert Altintop, he did them a favor, pleading no contest which meant he would be sentenced without trial. There would be no court appearances for the Eppes.

In the sleep department, Charlie's dreams had gradually quieted into strange but innocuous scenarios. In one, he appears in the FBI office, walking amongst the cubicles toward Don's workspace. It's empty, the lights set low. In the conference room, Volkov's emerald couch is perched atop the table and there are two Dr.Volkovs, one sitting at each end. The one on the left holds a notepad, the other the black baseball bat. Through smoky glass, a human shadow lurks outside the room, curious to see what will happen, his nose against the pane.

The twin Volkovs motion for Charlie to climb up and sit, tapping the space between them. He grabs a chair, steps up but suddenly the table is higher, over his head, and he reaches for it. As he pulls up, the edge rises even higher and his feet come off the chair, legs dangling. Charlie is angered, looks down to gage the height and lets himself drop. He peers up, sees the table has been lowered again to normal height, which angers him more. The Volkov on the left makes notes, the other has fallen asleep. Fed up, Charlie leaves, pausing to watch the human come out of lurking, and sees himself.

Although the dreams were vivid, they didn't bother him; he felt strong, knew he could deal with them. They were a vast improvement over nightmares and his screaming wake-ups had ceased.

What he did worry about was Don. His stalwart brother had procrastinated, delaying the appointment for the psychological evaluation. I'll go when I'm ready to go, he'd told Charlie, not when they tell me I have to. To his credit, on his own, Don had rescheduled the appointment and when the time came he stoically attended, swallowing his pride and emerging all the tougher for having dealt with it squarely as far as Charlie could tell. He didn't want to ask and risk ruffling his feathers.

Thereafter, the psychiatrist's report remained pending and Charlie grew nervous, eager to know what the report's recommendations would mean for his sibling, asking Don to call him as soon as he found out.

To which Don had casually replied: How about going to the batting range with me this afternoon? Charlie declined, said he'd have to take a rain check.

At home, the sundial sphere project was on course. Charlie had redrawn the schematic on his chalkboard—making a variation on the scale—and set about researching the availability of materials, intending to commission an artist to create it to his specifications. It would be magnificent. Now, it was a matter of actually acquiring those materials and getting them to an artist for cutting and assembly. Another hurdle, easy in comparison to the trials of the last few weeks. No hurry. He enjoyed the opportunity to do a normal activity normally.

In his garage study, he tied up loose ends, wondering where Jacobi might have discarded the door key. She had obviously discovered it tucked inside the toad in the plantar as Larry had predicted "any half-witted criminal" would know where to look. No one had been able to locate it and it was possible the key was in her possession, kept as a souvenir of spite. It bothered him she'd trespassed into his territory to steal from him and his family, that there were people out there who would take advantage of trust, sympathy, and love.

While searching for the key near the hockey table, Charlie heard a car door slam shut. He'd checked amongst the cartons and was on the floor feeling under the desk when Don walked in.

"Lose something?" he said. He wore jeans, brown button-down and running shoes.

"The key." Charlie crawled to the couch and peeked under, lying on his belly and sweeping his hand beneath it. On his side, he felt a sudden jab where the stitches had been, where the deep tissue was still healing, and he stopped a moment.

Don asked if he'd shaken out the bushes, perhaps she'd disposed of it there or in the flowerbeds.

"I guess she could have." He straightened up, kneeling on his heels. "Have you heard anything?"

He'd wandered over to the drawing of the sundial. "Yeah, I think I heard a flute."

"Not funny. You know what I mean." Charlie stood, brushed his jeans of cobwebs. "The report."

"Report?" he said. "This sundial's a nice stretch for you, Charlie. Got an artist yet?"

"Don, the evaluation."

"Where's Dad today?" At the couch, he dropped onto the cushions and leaned back, his body language unveiling a man not in a hurry. "I didn't see his car."

"He's catching up on some work." Charlie noticed Don's injury had been mending nicely, reduced to fuzzy bruises and a well-sealed scratch. "Are you going to say or not?"

"Say or not what?"

"If you're gonna' play games, I have things to do." He opened the door. "Bushes, flowers…"

"Okay okay. I heard today," he said, and Charlie joined him on the couch, holding his breath for the news. "Doc says I'm competent, I'll be all right. Recommends I go back to work on the condition I attend six months minimum weekly therapy with my shrink of choice. Preapproved of course."

Charlie exhaled, clasped Don's forearm. "Excellent news."

"You kidding? Once a week, Charlie."

"I find that reasonable." _And a relief._

"Reasonable?" Don said. "You get out of therapy, I have to go?"

"I'm glad for you. I was concerned they'd be unaccommodating."

"You were, weren't you? My job that important to you?"

"Yes," Charlie said. "Because you are."

"I'm weeping, bro."

He rolled his eyes, realized Don wouldn't be going mushy on him. "Just being honest with you," he said, and resumed his search, stepping onto a stool.

"I can appreciate that, so…" he said, "the night you were in the cave, I loitered a little."

From a top shelf, Charlie slid out a bulky cardboard box, thinking Jacobi might have disposed of the key by tossing it off haphazardly.

"I turned back," Don said. "I camped under the outcropping, out of sight."

Charlie was struggling with the box and had barely digested what Don was saying before the flimsy crate burst open. The bottom flaps had long ago come unglued, spilling Lincoln Logs, golf balls and other miscellany down his chest. "Ouch!" he said, "that smarts," and looked below. A large glob of magnets he and Don had played with as children had clipped his bent knee and split apart on the floor. "The whole time?" he said, holding his leg. "You saw me climbing down? By the tree?"

Don rose. "Oops, let me help you," he said, gathering up mini-logs. They'd scattered everywhere, rolling left and right. "Yeah, I watched you. What's so wrong with that? It's a high cave, steep incline."

Balancing the box, Charlie put it on the rickety table. "I didn't want anyone there."

"I prepare for every possibility. I'm trained to do that."

"Don't shove it off on your training." He snatched up a glob. "You should've gone back like you said you would."

Near the hockey table, Don had procured a plastic pail to place things in. "It's all the same—you didn't even know I was there."

Charlie collected magnets, using a large one to attract the smaller. "You didn't think I could do it, did you?" _Why didn't you tell me this when we were up there?_ "Or were you avoiding the cabin?"

"Absolutely not," Don said. "After I saw you go back up, I left."

"That straight?"

"Damn straight." Don offered Charlie the pail. "I stayed because I was worried, okay?"

Accepting it, Charlie dropped the magnets in. _Isn't that what I'd whined about, insisting Don walk me through it? I'm the one who changed my mind._ He's always been sincere with me, even if it was a product of his own confusion. He couldn't foresee he'd have his own problems. There've been no easy outs for either of us, no magic cures. We've made mistakes, but we can meet halfway. We'll only sustain our peace of mind if we sustain our peace as brothers.

Charlie placed the pail on the floor. "Thanks for being there," he said, meeting Don's eyes. "We don't have to be together all the time to be on the same wavelength."

Don agreed and let out a throaty howl, accented by his mischievous eyes, lines crinkling round them. "Great fire, huh?" he said, and they both laughed, turning to the door at once.

Alan entered, sidestepping golf balls and logs. "What fire? I miss something?"

_What keen Eppes ears. _Although they hadn't done so intentionally, Charlie and Don had been mum about the bonfire ceremony. It was highly conceivable, Charlie had surmised, that their father might never let them live it down if he found out about it. Or worse yet, share the fire story with their future girlfriends and wives—with embellishments. In any case, it had remained between brothers as an unspoken pact.

"We took a little liberty," Don said, "with our campfire permit."

Charlie confirmed, savoring their shared adventure.

Don pointed. "It was Charlie. His idea, his test."

"Test?" Alan said. "And pray tell, what was this test?"

"It was my theory…" Charlie scrunched down, fetching a tiny bear charm from under the hockey table. "…that Don needed a fire."

Alan said, "A campfire."

Don interjected. "Bigger."

"In a national forest?"

Charlie said yes, coming out to the couch. "By the cabin. Don't worry. We took every precaution."

"I see." With a foot, Alan coaxed a toy away from the chalkboard's wheels. "And you did this for Don?"

"Correct." Charlie grabbed a log entangled in cobwebs. "It was a power event."

Alan admitted he was confused and Charlie explained further.

"Don needed to build his own fire," he said. "To feel in charge."

Going to the box, Alan peered in. "I think I get it, stop feeling like a victim."

Charlie said, "Essentially."

"And how big was this fire?"

Don sat down. "About ten by ten."

Alan said, "Inches?"

"Feet—wide."_ Impressive. _"With leeway around the perimeter, three feet." _More or less…with an inclination toward less._

"At its tallest…" Don lifted his hands upwards, unaware of his brother's attempts to get his attention. "It was over our heads at least—"

Charlie interrupted, warned him with a _you've said enough _kind of look. He didn't want their father to know exactly how tall it had risen lest Alan worry his sons had retained a bit of their instabilities. "A couple of feet," he said. "We wouldn't have wanted to burn the park down or anything."

"I certainly hope that's the case. So you made a bonfire. Don't tell me—you stripped to your waists and pranced around the trees, lords of the forest."

Don said, "No, 'course not. No naked prancing."

_No howling like beasts._ _No wishing we'd brought beer. _"Just pure expression, Dad. It was a hell of a heat factory. I wish you'd been with us."

"I suppose I should be glad you're not in jail."

Don yawned; he seemed pensive but serene, the ends of his mouth turned up slightly. "There was never any danger."

Alan asked Don if it had helped with his problem.

"As of that day," he replied, "I'm in charge."

"Appears you both are." Alan chucked a golf ball into the box. "I believe I might have my sons back."

"And I have my job back," Don said. He was beaming now. "Received notice today."

Alan was pleased to hear the news, announced it was a great weight off his shoulders.

Charlie moved a board back against the wall. "You said it'd be over someday, Dad."

"I keep my promises," he said, and politely excused himself to prepare a dinner celebration for later, maybe invite a few friends over to share it, including Mrs. Lenns.

As soon as he left, Don got up, eased up to Charlie as though he were about to whisper a secret then locked an elbow snugly round his neck. "Why don't we sneak in a few fastballs, for you a few curves?"

Awkwardly, Charlie threw the last of the junk they'd gathered into the box but missed completely. He pictured the last time they were at the batting range, how much pain Don had endured when the ball smacked him at fifty miles an hour. "Now?" he said. He still felt guilty he'd caused it.

"Sure, I feel like celebrating. Unwinding. I'll give you a few pointers and you can give me a few."

Charlie said, "You said you don't like to think about your swing too much."

"I don't. But you, brother, can always find room for improvement."

"The ball that hit you last time. I didn't mean to—"

"I'm over it. Was only sore a couple of days." He hadn't released Charlie and doggedly pushed him toward the door. "I forgive you."

_Don's in a good mood._ "You do?" Seems these days everyone was in for a shot of forgiveness.

"Sure," he said. "But you'll have to watch out. Those balls crack hard, sting like wasps. Could happen to anybody, wouldn't want you to get hurt. What do you say? Get your bat."

"They have bats at the range."

"Black one's your favorite, right?"

"Yeah, but not for baseball." Charlie twisted, stole a look over his shoulder. "I haven't found the key."

"Forget the key," Don said. "Life's too choice, living's too short. We have better things to do."

---2---

At the range, under Don's instruction and advice, Charlie tried out a variety of stances and techniques. Initially, he swung too slowly, missing several pitches in a row before he loosened up and merged mercifully into tipping a dozen balls, interspersed with grounders. Next, he chopped up a liberal batch, sent them sailing every which way, misplacing a significant handful against the chain-links, finally lobbing some extraordinary ones into the net and field as he reached his stride, courting Don's approval. He knew he was neither as skilled nor as natural a hitter as his brother, but his mathematical mind was back in form; he had regained his perspective, securing a reliable grip not just on the bat, but on his life.

With each angle, each hit, he began to quantify for himself what felt good about a particular pitch, a particular swing, visualizing the bat as it exchanged its momentum to the ball, the ball flying away and out. As it flew, he saw wind and gravity exert their forces while it traveled its parabolic path across an invisible chalkboard in the sky until the gravity pulled it downward…gliding…and back to earth.

On Charlie's own path back to earth, he saw his father, supportive and patient, doing the best he could in a difficult situation, trapped between his sons' strong personalities. Dad's gentle and not-so-gentle suggestions, meant to help him, had been focused through the lens of Alan's own experience, through the insight of sixty plus years. _I'll make it up to you, Dad._

He saw his mother, wished he could hear what she'd say, not just dream it. The stress inherent in Don's work would've worried her; the Reylotts would've frightened her, but she'd be with us—Dad's loneliness would be obsolete. Mrs. Lenns would be your friend, Mom, borrow sugar from you. And I would've bought a different house instead of buying the one I'm so attached to. I'd have visited you the way Don visits me: whenever he pleases. It's as though he has two homes—or only one feels like home. _I'll tell my children about you, Mom, what a noble woman you were._

He then saw Jacobi the deceiver, felt a surge of indignation, whacked the next ball harder. It was the stolen money, yes, but also the letdown, that dispirited feeling of shattered expectations, and of being played like a fool. It hadn't taken him long to begin to believe he'd found someone unique. She'd betrayed him, used him; but he would get over it, survive. The money wasn't enough to hurt; the arrow into the heart was. Luckily, it'd merely grazed the corner. _I'll be the one who prospers. _

He saw Megan—willing to counsel the little brother when the big one wasn't available and who, along with David and Colby, watched out for Don on and off the job, better than Charlie would be able to do in an often dangerous occupation. _You're good friends to both of us.__I'll rely on you three to keep looking out for him._

He also saw that bonding rituals weren't merely for father and son but for brother and brother as well. He turned round, nodded to Don—he was standing behind the fence, eagerly giving out pointers, smiling as though nothing bad had ever happened, chewing gum enthusiastically. Everything seemed normal again. Charlie pictured him by the bonfire the night he'd courageously challenged the flames, ignoring the heat and stripped to the waist.

_I'll use what you've taught me—about facing fear head-on, about facing the fire. _

And he saw the wisdom in Larry's words, remembered them clearly, felt them deeply as he belted a ball high and solid, with faith and pluck, and heard a big cheer—just for the younger brother from the older one. He and Don really were like two circles on a sphere. Maybe it was the blood-is-thicker-than-water thing; or that the two of them had only the other for a sibling and could never go too far in taking each other for granted without losing something special; or that they were both decent guys who didn't want to harm anyone, anytime, in any way if they could help it; or that they cared about others, about each other…because they could cross at one point in life then go round and round, scramble all over the world, stray into unknown territory, challenge each other or completely lose sight of one another, yet they would still come round to cross at a second point, meeting at the same exact latitude and longitude of their lives. They had no other way to go.

In Charlieland, it was inevitable.

**_--The End--_**


End file.
